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MY  ACTOR-HUSBAND 


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ACTOR-HUSBAND 

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A  TRUE  STORT 

OF 

AMERICAN  STAGE  LIFE 


NEW  YORK 
THE  MACAULAY  COMPANY 

1913 


COPYRIGHT,  1912,  BY" 
JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 


P5 

3500 

Al 


To 
PROFESSOR  CHARLES  T.  COPELAND 

Of  Harvard  University 


FOREWORD— A    RETROSPECT 

IN  presenting  this  autobiography  to  the  public, 
the  author  feels  it  incumbent  upon  herself  to 
impress  upon  her  readers  the  fidelity  and  strict 
adherence  to  the  truth,  relative  to  the  condi- 
tions which  surround  the  player.  In  no  instance 
has  there  been  either  exaggeration  or  a  resort 
to  imaginative  creation.  It  is  a  true  story  with 
all  the  ugliness  of  truth  unsoftened  and  un- 
embellished.  Nor  is  the  situation  presented  an 
exceptional  one.  One  has  but  to  follow  the  ca- 
reer of  the  average  actor  to  be  convinced  that 
the  dramatic  profession  is  not  only  inconsistent 
with  but  wholly  hostile  to  the  institution  of 
marriage.  Managers  and  actors  alike  know 
and  admit  this  to  be  the  truth — amongst  them- 
selves. What  they  say  in  print  is,  of  course, 
merely  so  much  self -exploitation.  The  suc- 
cess of  any  branch  of  "the  show-business"  is 
dependent  on  the  bureau  of  publicity. 

To  one  intimately  acquainted  with  the  life, 
the  effusions  of  certain  actors'  wives,  which 


8      FOREWORD— A    RETROSPECT 

from  time  to  time  appear  in  magazines  for 
women,  are  ironically  humourous.  They  are  to 
be  put  down  as  the  babbling  of  the  newly-weds 
or  the  hunger  for  seeing  their  names  in  print. 
To  hear  the  wife  of  a  star  declare  that  she 
always  goes  to  the  theatre  and  sits  in  the  wings 
to  watch  her  husband  act  is  to  presage  the 
glaring  head-lines  of  a  divorce  in  the  not-far- 
distant  future.  If  it  be  not  now,  yet  it  will 
come,  for  those  players  who  go  through  life 
with  but  one,  even  two  marriages  to  their 
credit  are  the  great  exception  to  the  rule.  The 
actor's  life  precludes  domesticity  and  without 
domestic  life  there  can  be  no  successful  mar- 
riages. 

Every  community  has  its  stage-struck  girls. 
Year  after  year  the  Academies  of  Divine  Art 
turn  out  graduates  like  so  many  clothes-pins. 
Neither  aspirant  nor  parent  appears  to  ques- 
tion her  fitness  for  the  career  to  which  she  as- 
pires. Both  are  ignorant  of  the  conditions 
which  confront  the  tyro  or  they  have  a  wholly 
erroneous  idea  of  theatrical  life — ideas  culled 
from  the  articles  which  appear  from  time  to 
time  in  the  magazines  over  the  signature  of  a 
prominent  actress.  The  average  reader  has  no 
way  of  knowing  that  these  articles  are  not  writ- 


FOREWORD— A    RETROSPECT      9 

ten  by  the  actress  herself,  but  by  a  needy  scrib- 
bler to  whom  she  grants  permission  to  use  her 
name,  for  the  free  advertising  she  will  get  in 
return.  "My  Beginnings,"  "Advice  to  Stage- 
Struck  Girls  Who  Plan  to  Go  on  the  Stage," 
etc.,  are  alluring  head-lines.  The  subject 
matter  is  a  mass  of  glittering  and  trite  gen- 
eralities. Of  the  real  conditions,  the  pitfalls, 
the  drawbacks  to  be  met,  the  outsider  hears 
nothing.  And  when  once  in  a  decade  a  scribe 
dares  to  express  himself  truthfully  concerning 
the  moral  atmosphere  in  the  theatrical  profes- 
sion—  (vide  Mr.  Clement  Scott) — the  air  is 
rent  with  expostulations,  denials  and  protesta- 
tions from  the  members  of  "the  profession." 
Interviews  and  letters  pack  the  enterprising 
press.  Many  of  those  who  protest  the  loud- 
est have  the  least  to  lose. 

It  has  been  said  that  art  bears  no  relation  to 
morals:  as  well  might  it  be  declared  that  the 
blood  bears  no  relation  to  health.  Art  must 
forever  be  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  its  delinea- 
tor. 

The  moral  status  of  the  stage  may  not  be  a 
whit  worse  than  that  of  half  a  dozen  other 
professions.  It  is  possible,  but  hardly  probable. 
The  very  exigencies  of  the  player's  life  make 


io    FOREWORD— A    RETROSPECT 

for  a  laxity  and  freedom  from  restraint.  And 
in  no  other  profession  are  the  lives  of  the  in- 
dividual members  so  intimately  concerned. 
The  popular  contention  that  a  good  woman  can 
and  will  be  good  under  any  and  all  circum- 
stances is  a  fallacy.  The  influence  of  environ- 
ment is  incomputable.  I  believe  that  my  little 
friend  Leila  was  fundamentally  a  good  girl: 
in  any  other  walk  of  life  she  would  have  re- 
mained a  good  girl.  I  believe  that  funda- 
mentally my  husband  was  a  good  man:  in  any 
other  environment  he  would  have  been  a  good 
husband.  The  fantastic,  unreal  and  over- 
stimulated  atmosphere  which  the  player 
breathes  is  not  conducive  to  a  sane  and  well- 
balanced  life. 

And  if,  in  a  ruthless  rending  aside  of  the 
tinselled  illusions  which  enthrall  the  stage- 
struck  girl,  I  have  rendered  a  service,  my  own 
suffering  will  not  have  been  in  vain. 


CHAPTER   I 

IT  was  our  first  separation.  All  day  I  had 
fought  back  the  tears  while  I  helped  Will  pack 
his  "Taylor"  trunk.  Neither  of  us  spoke; 
once  in  every  little  while  Will  would  stop  in 
the  act  of  folding  a  garment,  and  smile  at  me 
in  approval.  Then  his  arm  would  steal  around 
my  shoulders  and  he  would  pat  me  tenderly. 
...  I  would  turn  away,  pretending  to  busy 
myself  with  other  things,  but  in  reality  to  hide 
the  freshet  of  tears  his  silent  expression  of  sym- 
pathy had  undammed.  .  .  .  Will  had  signed 
with  a  star  to  play  Shakespearean  repertoire. 
The  question  of  wardrobe  was  a  source  of 
worry,  until  I  volunteered  my  services;  I  was 
a  good  needlewoman,  and,  from  the  sketches 
Will  made,  I  was  able  to  qualify  as  a  full- 
fledged  costumier.  For  days  I  had  pegged 
away,  refurbishing  the  old  and  making  new 
ones,  and  sometimes  Will  would  lend  a  hand 
and  run  the  machine  over  the  thick  seams. 
...  I  once  read  that  the  women  of  the  Com- 

ii 


12  MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

mune  wove  the  initials  of  those  they  hated  into 
their  knitting;  well,  I  sewed  the  seams  of  Will's 
dresses  thick  with  love,  and  hope,  and  ambition 
.  .  .  and  dampened  them  with  tears.  .  .  . 
Then  when  the  expressman  came  for  the  trunk 
...  it  seemed  as  if  they  were  taking  away  a* 
coffin.  .  .  . 

Not  until  that  night,  after  we  had  gone  to 
bed,  and  I  felt  Will's  deep,  rhythmical  breath- 
ing beneath  my  head,  which  lay  pressed  against 
his  breast,  only  then  did  I  give  way  to  my  grief. 
I  crept  to  the  other  side  of  the  bed  and  turned 
my  face  to  the  wall — I  shook  with  convulsive 
sobs. 

Now  and  then  Will  would  half  waken,  and 
would  reach  out  and  dreamily  pat  my  face  and 
smooth  back  my  hair,  as  one  soothes  a  sorrow- 
ing child.  At  such  times  I  would  hold  my 
breath,  and  wait  until  he  was  again  quiet.  .  .  . 

Every  incident  of  our  short  married  life 
passed  in  review  before  my  burning  eyes.  We 
had  closed  our  season  late  in  April,  and  had 
come  back  to  New  York  with  less  than  seventy- 
five  dollars  between  us.  But  what  we  lacked  in 
money  was  more  than  balanced  by  our  enthu- 
siasm and  illusion — the  illusion  of  two  young 
persons  very  much  in  love  with  each  other.  I 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  13 

had  been  in  New  York  only  once  before,  and 
the  thought  of  living  in  the  great  city,  of  be- 
coming an  integral  part  of  it,  made  me  thrill 
with  excitement.  Will  and  I  stood  on  the  front 
of  the  ferry-boat  and  watched  the  panorama; 
he  pointed  out  the  various  tall  buildings  with 
an  air  of  familiarity.  When  we  passed  close 
to  a  great  ocean  liner,  which  was  being  swung 
into  her  dock  by  two  fussy  little  tug-boats, 
even  Will  got  excited.  He  told  me  which  was 
"fore,"  and  "aft,"  and  named  various  other 
parts  of  the  boat  which  I  didn't  understand. 
When  we  had  taken  our  last  look,  he  tucked 
my  hand  under  his  arm  and  told  me  that  one 
day  he  and  I  should  take  a  trip  abroad.  .  .  . 

Owing  to  the  shortage  in  our  money  supply, 
we  had  decided  to  go  to  a  theatrical  boarding 
house.  Will  was  depending  on  his  father  to 
send  him  an  allowance  throughout  the  summer, 
and  while  it  would  be  sufficient  for  his  needs, 
now  that  he  was  married — well,  we  should 
have  a  chance  to  test  the  saying  that  two  can 
live  as  cheaply  as  one.  Our  marriage  had  been 
a  secret  one — besides  the  "star"  and  one  or 
two  members  of  the  company,  we  had  taken  no 
one  into  our  confidence.  Will's  family — his 
father,  a  sister  and  brother — his  mother  hav- 


i4  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

ing  died  about  the  time  I  came  into  his  life — all 
were  intolerant  of  the  stage  and  its  people. 
Though  I  was  not  yet  a  "really  truly"  actress, 
the  fact  that  Will  had  met  me  "in  the  profes- 
sion" would  have  prejudiced  them  against  me; 
added  to  this  was  the  fact  that  Will,  himself  a 
tyro,  taking  a  wife  at  the  very  threshold  of  his 
career  would  not  be  looked  at  through   our 
love-coloured  glasses.    The  effect  my  marriage 
might  have  upon  my  own  relatives  never  trou- 
bled me;  my  father  and  mother  belonged  to 
that   great   class    of   incompetent   parenthood 
which  brings  children  into  the  world  without 
any  actual  love  for  them.     Never  questioning 
their  fitness  for  child-rearing,  they  divine  no 
greater  responsibility  than  providing  bodily  ne- 
cessities and  a  more  or  less  superficial  educa- 
tion.    When,  at  the  restless  age  of  sixteen,  I 
announced   my    determination    to    become    an 
actress,  there  was  some  surface  opposition,  but 
no  effort  was  made  to  enquire  into  my  fitness 
for  the  dramatic  profession,  or  the  fitness  of 
the  dramatic  profession  as  a  career  for  any 
innocent  and  unprotected  young  girl.     I  had 
been  highly  successful  as  an  amateur,  and,  as  it 
was  not  necessary  that  I  earn  my  own  living, 
the  stage  appeared  to  their  insapient  minds  an 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  15 

interesting  playground  for  a  dilettante  daugh- 
ter. .  .  . 

One  week  in  a  theatrical  boarding  house  was 
all  we  could  endure.  I  wonder  why  it  is  that 
the  rank  and  file  of  the  theatrical  profession 
are  at  such  pains  to  impress  one  another  with 
their  importance.  The  flippant  familiarity 
with  which  they  referred  to  "Charley"  or 
"Dan"  Frohman;  the  coarse  criticism  of  their 
fellow-actors,  which  Will  called  "knocking"; 
their  easy  disregard  of  the  conventions,  espe- 
cially between  the  sexes;  a  bombastic  retailing 
of  their  own  exploits,  as  "how  I  jumped  on  and 
saved  the  show,  with  only  one  rehearsal"; 
talking  "shop"  to  the  exclusion  of  every  other 
subject  in  the  world.  I  overheard  one  of  the 
actresses  at  the  next  table  say  we  were  "very 
up-stage,"  which  Will  interpreted  as  "not  so- 
ciable, and  having  too  good  an  opinion  of  one's 
self."  Neither  of  us  was  happy  in  our  new 
surroundings,  and  I  felt  a  sense  of  relief  when 
Will  suggested  that  we  look  for  a  furnished 
flat.  I  did  not  mean  to  be  critical  of  my  hus- 
band's profession — I  endeavored  to  agree  with 
him  that  every  profession  has  its  undesirables. 
•  We  spent  days  in  climbing  narrow  stairs  to 
look  at  dark,  closet-like  apertures  with  no  ven- 


1 6  MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

tilation;  even  the  strength-sapping  humidity 
of  the  streets  seemed  fresh  in  comparison.  At 
last,  we  found  something  less  undesirable  than 
the  others.  The  building  was  new,  and  the 
apartment  in  the  rear  gave  upon  a  row  of 
private  houses  with  small  yards;  there  were 
flowers  and  a  few  trees — little  oases  in  a  desert 
of  brick  and  mortar.  The  janitor  told  us  there 
were  three  rooms:  the  bedroom  was  an  alcove 
affair,  divided  from  the  parlor  by  pea-green 
portieres;  the  kitchen  beyond  was  as  large  as 
the  pantry  in  our  house  at  home ;  and  the  fur- 
nishings— !  The  whole  outfit  might  have  been 
removed  from  a  Seventh  Avenue  show-window, 
where  they  advertise  "Complete  furnished 
apartment  for  $49.99.'*  The  near-gold-leaf 
chairs  were  so  frail  that  one  was  afraid  to  sit 
upon  them.  The  general  atmosphere  of  the 
parlor  reminded  me  of  the  stage-settings  one 
comes  across  in  one-night-stand  theatres. 
However,  the  vistas  of  the  trees  and  flowers 
decided  the  momentous  question.  We  paid  a 
month's  rent,  then  and  there;  it  made  a  ter- 
rible hole  in  our  last  and  only  fifty-dollar  bill, 
but  neither  of  us  worried  much  about  it.  For 
the  next  week  the  "show-business"  was  rele- 
gated to  the  background.  We  played  "house" 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  17 

like  two  children;  we  arranged  and  rearranged 
the  furniture,  and  Will  made  a  comfortable 
divan  from  two  packing  cases.  We  went  out 
to  market  on  Ninth  Avenue  and  Will  carried 
the  basket  on  his  arm.  Then  we  tried  our 
hand  at  cooking;  Will  carried  off  the  honours 
for  coffee — and  hard-boiled  eggs.  I  washed 
and  Will  dried  the  dishes — I  can  see  him  now, 
with  an  apron  tied  high  under  his  arm,  de- 
claiming Shakespeare,  and  juggling  with  the 
landlord's  dishes. 

Our  greatest  problem  was  the  lack  of  bath- 
ing facilities.  We  solved  it  by  bathing  in  the 
wash-tubs;  to  be  sure  it  was  a  bit  hazardous 
standing  on  a  sloping  bottom,  in  danger  of  fall- 
ing out  of  the  kitchen  window  if  one  leaned 
too  much  to  the  right,  or  of  toppling  over  to 
the  floor  if  veering  a  bit  too  much  to  the  left. 
But  it  was  a  bath,  and,  as  Will  said,  prefer- 
able to  the  communal  affair  in  the  boarding 
house. 

The  summer  passed  all  too  quickly.  Those 
w.ere  happy,  happy  days.  .  .  .  Sometimes  the 
money  market  was  tight — very  tight;  especially 
when  Will's  father  was  careless  about  send- 
ing Will's  allowance.  I  cried  bitterly  the  first 
time  Will  went  to  a  pawn-shop;  it  seemed  so 


1 8  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

humiliating  to  have  him  do  it.  Will  laughed, 
and  said  he  regarded  it  as  so  much  experience. 
Several  times  a  week  we  donned  our  best 
clothes  and  made  the  rounds  of  the  theatrical 
employment  agencies.  Will  had  had  several 
offers  during  the  summer,  but  we  wanted  a 
joint  engagement;  we  had  promised  each  other, 
when  we  married,  that  nothing  should  cause  us 
to  be  separated.  Will  and  I  felt  that  to  the 
enforced  separation  of  married  persons — the 
husband  in  one  company,  the  wife  in  another — 
was  due  the  great  number  of  divorces  in  the 
theatrical  profession.  Our  "star,"  when  ap- 
prised of  our  marriage,  had  followed  his  good 
wishes  and  congratulations  with  a  heart  to 
heart  talk  with  Will. 

"It's  all  right,  my  boy,"  he  said,  "don't 
blame  you  a  bit.  She's  a  charming  girl,  and 
you're  in  love  with  her.  If  it  were  any  other 
business  but  the  show-business,  I'd  say  you're  a 
lucky  dog,  but — I'm  going  to  be  frank  with  you 
— a  man  or  a  woman  in  the  theatrical  business 
has  no  right  to  marry.  It's  all  very  lovely  so 
long  as  you're  together,  but  you  can't  be  to- 
gether. The  chances  are  against  it — you  may 
be  lucky  enough  to  get  a  joint  engagement  one 
season,  but  the  next  season  you're  off  on  the 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  19 

road,  while  she's  playing  in  New  York  or  in 
another  part  of  the  country.  And  what  does 
this  separation  lead  to  in  the  end?  You're  a 
human  being;  you  crave  society,  companion- 
ship; gradually  you  become  weaned  away  and 
the  inevitable  happens.  It's  propinquity  and 
home  ties  which  make  marriage  a  success;  the 
life  of  an  actor  precludes  domesticity.  The 
very  exigencies  of  his  profession  are  not  only 
inconsistent  with,  but  hostile  to,  the  institu- 
tion of  marriage." 

When  Will  retailed  all  this  to  me,  it  sounded 
very  big  and  very  dreadful — and  also  very 
vague.  Any  danger  from  separation  seemed 
in  the  far,  distant  future.  .  .  .  We  agreed 
that  a  man  and  wife  who  permitted  themselves 
to  become  estranged  because  of  temporary 
separations  knew  nothing  of  real  love — such 
love  as  ours,  at  any  rate.  .  .  .  And  now,  with 
the  summer  going  on  apace  and  no  joint  en- 
gagement in  sight,  the  fear  assumed  a  tangible 
shape,  the  dread  of  separation  hung  over  me 
like  a  pall.  Will  tried  to  reassure  me  by  say- 
ing it  was  still  early,  and  that  we  would  hold 
out.  ...  I  believed  what  he  said  with  a  child- 
like faith.  Indeed,  I  am  not  so  sure  that  in 
these  days  I  did  not  worship  Will  with  the 


20  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

same  idolatry  that  I  offered  up  to  the  Virgin 
Mary.  .  .  .  The  whole  world  had  merged 
into  one  being — my  husband.  My  love  for  my 
husband  was  the  absorbing  passion  of  my  life. 
Never  happy  in  my  home — my  father  had  mar- 
ried a  second  wife — all  the  pent-up  tenderness 
and  passionate  love  found  an  outlet  in  my  mar- 
riage. I  sometimes  wondered  what  had  be- 
come of  my  ambition:  this,  too,  had  centred 
upon  him.  To  be  sure  I  meant  to  succeed  as 
an  actress,  but  I  now  thought  of  success  only  in 
the  light  of  an  assistance  to  him.  It  was  al- 
ready settled  between  us  that  I  should  be  his 
leading  lady,  once  he  became  a  star.  There 
should  be  no  separations  in  our  life.  .  .  . 

The  weeks  flew  by  ...  the  summer  waned. 
Will  became  less  reassuring — he  took  on  a 
worried  look.  I  began  to  awaken  of  mornings 
with  a  sickening,  intangible  apprehension. 
After  a  while  I  stopped  going  to  the  agencies. 
It  seemed  so  futile.  And  then,  one  day,  late  in 
the  summer,  when  the  theatres  along  Broad- 
way had  begun  to  remove  the  signboards  from 
their  entrances — it  came.  I  knew  something 
had  happened  when  Will  opened  the  door.  In- 
stead of  kissing  me  at  once,  as  was  his  habit,  he 
passed  on  to  the  bedroom  without  looking  at 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  21 

me,  saying,  "Hello,  Girlie."  There  was  al- 
ways something  infinitely  tender  in  the  way  he 
said  these  words,  but  today  there  was  a  new 
note  in  his  voice.  It  took  a  long  time  to  put 
away  his  hat  and  cane;  then  he  came  out  and 
kissed  me. 

I  was  peeling  potatoes.  He  drew  up  a 
chair  so  that  our  knees  met;  then  he  laid  a  hand 
on  each  shoulder  and  his  fingers  gripped  me. 
We  looked  into  each  other's  eyes.  .  .  .  After 
a  while  I  managed  to  say,  "Well,  dear?"  .  .  . 
and  when  he  replied  his  voice  seemed  far  away. 
I  had  the  sense  of  returning  consciousness  after 
a  blow.  ...  I  suppose  I  was  a  little 
dazed.  .  . 

"Well,  dear,  I've  signed  with "  (he 

named  a  boy-Hamlet,  well  known  throughout 
the  middle  west) ,  "the  salary  is  good  and  I'll 
play  the  King  in  Hamlet,  Buckingham  in  Rich- 
ard, and,  if  we  do  the  Merchant,  I'll  be  cast 
for  Gratiano.  .  .  .  The  best  thing  about  it  is 
the  possibility  of  coming  into  New  York  for  a 
run.  The  star  wants  to  play  Hamlet  on 
Broadway,  and  I've  been  told  he's  got  good 
backing.  ...  So,  little  girl.  ...  it  may  not 
be  for  so  long  after  all.  .  .  ." 

Neither  of  us  referred  to  the  subject  again 


22  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

that  day;  neither  did  we  try  to  make  believe  at 
being  cheerful.  We  understood  each  other's 
silence.  .  .  .  and  respected  it.  Outside  the 
rain  poured.  Will  stood  at  the  window  look- 
ing out,  but  I  am  sure  he  did  not  see  the 
rain.  .  .  . 

All  these  details  passed  before  my  mind  like 
moving-pictures.  When  at  last  I  fell  asleep,  it 
was  to  dream  the  incongruous,  disjointed  stuff 
of  which  the  actor's  dreams  are  made;  the 
sense  of  being  late  for  a  cue,  or  hearing  the  cue 
spoken,  to  realize  that  one  is  but  half-dressed, 
or,  again,  to  rush  upon  the  scene  only  to  find 
the  lines  obliterated  from  one's  memory.  .  .  . 
When  I  awoke,  I  heard  Will  in  the  kitchen; 
there  was  the  smell  of  boiling  coffee.  For  a 
moment  there  was  no  consciousness  of  my 
"douleureuse,"  then  memory  swept  me  like  an 
engulfing  wave.  I  cried  aloud;  then  Will  took 
me  in  his  strong  arms  and  kissed  my  swollen 
eyes,  oh,  so  tenderly.  .  . 

To  recall  the  moment*  preceding  and  fol- 
lowing Will's  departure  causes — even  at  this 
late  day — a  tightening  around  the  heart.  There 
were  some  red  roses  in  a  cheap  glass  vase  on 
the  mantle;  Will  had  bought  them  from  a 
street  vendor  that  morning  when  he  went  out 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  23 

for  the  papers.  He  had  pinned  one  in  my  dark 
hair.  .  .  .  After  many  false  starts,  and  bid- 
ding me,  "Cheer  up — it  won't  be  for  long," 
he  closed  the  door  after  him.  ...  It  was  our 
first  separation. 


CHAPTER    II 

THE  red  roses  had  withered;  their  crisp  pet- 
als lay  scattered  over  the  mantel  and  about 
the  floor.  Stooping  to  gather  them,  I  was 
seized  with  a  giddiness;  it  dawned  on  me  that 
I  had  not  eaten  for — I  did  not  know  how 
long.  I  went  into  the  kitchen;  the  table  lay 
as  we  had  left  it  that  morning  at  breakfast. 
There  was  his  chair  and  the  morning  paper. 
I  didn't  cry — I  felt  only  a  heaviness,  a  numb- 
ness. Mechanically  I  set  about  to  put  the 
house  in  order;  I  realized  that  I  must  get  my- 
self in  hand  if  only  to  please  Will.  I  even 
managed  a  laugh  at  my  own  stupidity  when, 
after  neatly  folding  and  placing  my  kitchen 
apron  upon  a  shelf  in  the  dish-cupboard,  I 
hung  the  sugar  bowl  on  a  peg  where  the 
apron  should  have  gone,  and  was  drenched 
with  a  shower  of  sugar  for  my  pains. 

For  several  days  I  lived  on  milk,  which  the 
janitor  sent  up  on  the  dumb-waiter.  I  could 
not  muster  sufficient  courage  to  go  out  to  mar- 

24 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  25 

ket.  The  sunlight  mocked  me — I  resented  the 
happy  laughter  of  the  family  across  the  hall. 
The  postman's  ring,  several  days  later,  put 
new  life  into  me.  I  knew  the  letter  was  from 
.Will.  I  caught  the  postman  almost  before  he 
stopped  ringing,  and,  carrying  the  letter  to  my 
room,  gave  myself  up  to  devouring  it. 

It  was  filled  with  interesting  gossip  about 
his  opening,  and  gave  humourous  little  side- 
lights of  the  star  and  personnel  of  the  com- 
pany. He  bade  me  cheer  up  and  not  take  our 
separation  too  seriously;  he  promised  to  write 
every  day,  and  asked  that  I  do  likewise.  I 
marked  this  precious  epistle  with  a  large  "i" 
in  blue  pencil  and  tucked  it  away  with  the  rose- 
leaves.  Then  I  sat  down  to  write — I  wrote 
reams.  It  is  wondrous  the  many  modes  of  ex- 
pressing "I  love  you."  To  distil  those  many 
pages,  written  in  the  thin,  slanting  hand  of  my 
girlhood,  would  be  to  extract  the  very  essence 
of  my  life's  romance — or,  shall  I  say,  tragedy. 

I  lived  for  the  postman's  ring.  Sundays 
were  the  hardest  to  bear;  there  was  no  mail 
delivery.  The  weeks  dragged  on  at  snail's 
pace.  Finally,  loneliness  and  isolation  drove 
me  to  a  state  of  desperation,  which,  in  turn, 
gave  me  the  necessary  courage  to  visit  the 


26  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

agencies.  Will  was  reluctant  to  have  me  take 
an  engagement  alone;  he  made  me  promise 
that  I  would  not  take  such  a  step  without  first 
consulting  him.  Indeed,  had  he  but  known  it, 
the  thought  of  again  travelling  alone  in  a  the- 
atrical company  was  distasteful  to  me;  natur- 
ally sensitive  and  of  a  retiring  disposition,  my 
first  season  in  the  dramatic  profession  had  left 
some  unpleasant  memories.  It  was  difficult  to 
accustom  myself  to  enter  an  hotel  lobby  alone, 
or,  if  in  company  with  other  members  of  the 
organization,  to  hear  our  party  referred  to  as 
the  "troupe."  The  ubiquitous  drummer  loung- 
ing at  the  hotel  desk  regarded  us  with  brazen 
audacity,  and  made  audible  comments.  Then, 
to  enter  a  dining-room  unattended,  either  to  be 
corralled  at  a  table  with  the  other  members  of 
the  company,  or,  if  seated  elsewhere,  to  be  fur- 
ther subjected  to  the  advances  of  a  "travelling 
salesman."  Again,  when  walking  to  the  thea- 
tre or  to  the  railroad  station,  to  see  the  town- 
folk  turn  curiously,  regarding  the  players  with 
a  condescending  smile,  which  curled  the  corners 
of  the  mouth  downward  as  they  whispered, 
"Show  people."  In  larger  cities  these  marks 
of  opprobrium  are  less  pronounced,  but,  never- 
theless, exist.  I  resented  this  attitude  towards 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  27 

the  theatrical  profession  until  I  became  better 
acquainted  with  it.  There  be  those  who  mis- 
take liberty  for  license,  and  seemingly  the  free- 
dom from  restraint  and  the  lack  of  convention- 
ality, which  the  life  affords,  appear  to  be  one 
of  the  chief  attractions  for  adopting  it. 

However,  it  was  expedient  that  I  should 
work.  I  dangled  before  my  willing  eyes  the 
reward  of  the  future — that  time  when  my  hus- 
band and  I  should  play  together.  I  even 
planned  that  we  should  be  an  example  to  others 
in  our  devotion  and  high  moral  purpose;  and 
so,  by  reducing  expense  of  maintaining  two  es- 
tablishments— the  flat  in  New  York  and  Will's 
living  on  the  road — we  should  be  better 
equipped  to  hold  out  for  a  joint  engagement 
for  the  following  season. 

One  morning,  while  waiting  in  the  office  of 
an  agent  to  whom  Will  had  introduced  me,  I 
was  drawn  into  conversation  with  an  actress 
whose  photographs  adorned  the  walls  of  the 
room.  There  was  an  air  of  importance  about 
her,  quite  distinct  from  that  of  the  other 
women  who  were  waiting;  these  women  wore 
an  abject  expression.  They  had  relaxed  the 
mechanical  expression  of  "bien  etre"  as  the 
weariness  of  waiting  wore  upon  them;  in  spite 


28  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

of  the  make-up — more  or  less  skilfully  applied 
— their  faces  were  drawn  and  strained.  Their 
clothes,  too,  told  of  the  attempt  to  keep  up  ap-r 
pearances.  I  felt  a  sympathy  and  fellowship 
for  these  unemployed;  I  wondered  whether 
they  too,  were,  by  the  force  of  circumstances, 
separated  from  their  loved  ones. 

Miss  Burton,  the  lady  of  some  importance, 
broke  my  train  of  thought  by  precipitately  ask- 
ing me  to  "come  and  have  a  cup  of  tea."  She 
assured  me  she  would  not  let  me  miss  "old 
Tom" — calling  the  agent  by  the  familiar  dimin- 
utive— and  that  having  sent  for  her  he  was 
bound  to  wait.  "It  makes  all  the  difference  in 
the  world  whether  they  send  for  you,  or 
whether  you  go  to  them  for  an  engagement," 
she  told  me,  with  a  sententious  nod  of  her  head. 
She  was  so  bright  and  vivacious,  and  so  wholly 
un-selfconscious  that,  for  a  moment,  I  was 
drawn  out  of  my  dreamy  loneliness. 

We  went  to  a  near-by  hotel.  "You  take 
what  you  like,"  she  said,  summoning  the  wai- 
ter. "Beer  for  mine!" 

I  took  tea. 

While  we  sipped  our  respective  beverages 
she  told  me  about  herself.  She  was  a  well- 
known  comedienne — "  'soubrettes'  they  called 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  29 

them  in  the  old  days,"  she  volunteered.  She 
had  been  with  "Charley"  Frohman  off  and  on 
for  years,  and  expected  to  go  back  to  him. 

"I've  been  in  his  bad  books,"  she  went  on. 
"I  had  a  good  thing,  and  I  didn't  know  it. 
When  I  think  how  I  got  in  wrong  all  on  ac- 
count of  those  two  big  stiffs — !"  My  inability 
to  follow  her  was  probably  expressed  in  my 
face,  for  she  immediately  rattled  on :  "You  see, 
it  was  like  this.  When  Jack  and  I  were  mar- 
ried we  were  in  the  same  Company.  He  was 
what  they  call  the  'Acting  Manager,'  travelled 
on  the  road  and  represented  the  New  York 
office — understand?  Well,  the  next  year  we 
didn't  get  an  engagement  together;  he  went  off 
on  the  road  and  I  created  a  part  in  a  New 
York  production.  It  was  simply — hell!  We 
used  to  make  the  most  God-forsaken  jumps, 
just  to  be  together  over  Sunday.  Why,  once  I 
can  remember  I  rode  all  night  in  the  caboose 
of  a  freight  train  to  some  little  dump  of  a  town 
where  Jack's  Company  had  played  on  Satur- 
day night.  Can  you  beat  it?  Oh,  I  tell  you, 
I  had  it  bad."  And  Miss  Burton  buried  her 
feeling  and  her  face  in  the  stein  of  beer.  After 
a  pause  she  continued:  "Well,  the  same  devilish 
luck  followed  us  the  next  season;  we  couldn't 


3o  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

dig  up  an  engagement  together  for  love  or 
money — and  we  slipped  a  nice  little  roll  to  sev- 
eral of  the  agents,  too.  It  just  seemed  as  if 
managers  were  dead  set  against  having  a  man 
and  wife  in  the  same  company.  Some  of  'em 
acknowledge  it  right  out  loud,  if  you  please ! 
They  claim  a  man  and  wife  in  the  same  com- 
pany make  trouble;  either  they  want  to  share 
the  same  dressing-room,  or  the  husband  kicks 
if  his  wife  gets  the  worst  of  it  in  the  dressing- 
room  line.  Or,  if  the  husband  happens  to  be 
a  manager,  there's  the  temptation  to  favour  his 
wife,  and  somebody  else  kicks  up  a  row.  Oh, 
they've  got  excuses  enough,  whether  they're 
justifiable  or  not.  Anyway,  that's  the  kind  of 
bunk  you're  up  against  when  you  marry  in  the 
profession.  .  .  .  Where  was  I?  ...  Oh 
Well,  after  two  seasons  of  separation,  it 
dawned  on  me  that  Jacky  wasn't  so  keen  about 
making  long  jumps  to  see  wifey;  pretty  soon  I 
began  to  hear  gossip — he  was  carrying  some 
fairy's  grip  in  the  company  he  was  with.  Then 
I  began  to  watch  him  ...  I  caught  him  with 
the  goods  all  right.  .  .  .  Exit,  hastily,  Jacky!" 
and,  with  an  expressive  wave  of  her  hands  to 
indicate  his  departure,  Miss  Burton  called  for 
another  stein. 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  31 

I  fear  I  appeared  a  perfect  idiot  in  the  vol- 
uble little  lady's  eyes.  I  could  not  muster  a 
comment  of  any  description.  Miss  Burton, 
however,  did  not  notice  my  omission,  for  she 
raced  on  with  the  same  energy  of  expression. 

"That  blow  pretty  nearly  killed  Mother,  I 
can  tell  you.  I  was  in  love  with  Jack  all  right. 
...  It  broke  me  all  up  to  have  him  throw  me 
down  for  a  second-rate  soubrette  like  that.  I 
wish  you  could  have  seen  it — one  of  these  'I'm 
so  temperamental'  kind  of  dopes.  She  threw 
him  down  as  soon  as  she'd  used  him  for  what 
he  was  worth.  ...  I  took  to  the  booze. 
Whew !  I  did  go  it  hard  for  a  while !  That's 
what  queered  me  with  C.  F.  .  .  .  Then,  what 
d'ye  think  I  did?"  Miss  Burton  leaned  for- 
ward to  better  impress  me  with  the  importance 
of  her  revelation:  "I  tried  it  a  second  time. 
.  .  .  This  one  was  an  actor:  one  of  those 
handsome,  shaving-soap  advertisement  kind  of 
faces — beautiful  teeth,  and  workin'  the  smile 
overtime  to  show  'em!  .  .  .  Black  curly  hair, 
high  brow,  chesty — you  know — the  real  thing 
in  heavy  men.  .  .  .  Mash  notes,  society  ladies 
making  goo-goo  eyes  at  him,  and  forgetting  to 
invite  me  to  those  little  impromptu  suppers. 
Ha!  .  .  don't  ask  me!  It  was  worse  than 


32  MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

the  first.  .  .  .  No,  ma'am,  matrimony  and  the 
stage  don't  mix.  They  ought  to  nail  over 
every  stage  door  this  warning :  'All  ye  who  en- 
ter here,  leave  matrimony  outside.'  Yes,  I 
know  what  you  are  going  to  say — that  there 
are  happy  marriages  among  stage  folks,  and 
you'll  name  some  of  the  shining  examples.  The 
domestic  felicity  of  Mr.  Great  Star  and  his 
wife  makes  up  well  in  print.  But,  wait  awhile. 
.  .  .  Have  you  finished  with  your  tea?  Let's 
step  in  the  ladies'  room — I'm  dying  for  a 
smoke." 

On  our  way  back  to  the  office,  Miss  Burton 
asked  me  about  myself.  When  I  spoke  of 
Will,  she  turned  sharply  and  looked  at  me  with 
a  hurt  expression. 

"Why,  you  poor  kid!  Why  didn't  you  tell 
me  you  were  married?  Now,  don't  you  let 
anything  I  said  worry  you  a  bit.  Everybody 
is  apt  to  draw  general  conclusions  from  per- 
sonal experiences.  There's  always  the  excep- 
tion to  prove  the  rule.  Besides  .  .  .  '  She 
slipped  her  arm  through  mine  and  gave  me  a 
reassuring  pressure. 

The  agent  received  her  in  his  private  office, 
and  when  she  came  out  she  was  in  high  spirits. 
Calling  me  to  her,  she  put  me  on  a  friendly 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND  33 

footing  with  the  agent,  who  promised  to  keep 
me  in  mind.  I  thanked  her  for  her  kindly  in- 
terest, and  went  home. 

Desolate  as  the  little  flat  was,  I  found 
strange  comfort  within  its  protecting  walls. 
The  power  of  Will's  personality  had  impreg- 
nated the  place,  and  I  felt  its  soothing  influ- 
ence. I  devoted  the  evening  to  writing  to  my 
husband  a  long  letter,  but,  strangely  enough,  I 
did  not  repeat  the  conversation  I  had  had  with 
Miss  Burton.  That  night  I  prayed  that  he  and 
I  might  be  the  exception  to  prove  the 
rule.  .  .  . 

The  next  day  I  visited  another  agency.  The 
presiding  genius  was  a  corpulent  person,  with 
cold  blue  eyes  which  cowed  at  the  first  glance. 
She  stood  behind  the  rail  which  divided  the 
office  from  the  waiting  applicants  with  an  air 
of  a  magistrate  dispensing  justice  not  alto- 
gether tempered  with  mercy.  There  was  some- 
thing insolent  in  the  way  she  shut  off  the  open- 
ing speeches  of  the  applicants  with,  "No,  noth- 
ing for  you  today;  nothing  doing,  Mr.  Blank." 
Then,  as  a  highly  scented  and  berouged  person 
entered,  clanking  the  gold  baubles  of  her  chate- 
laine as  she  swished  by,  the  majoress-domo 
swung  open  the  gate  and  greeted  her  with, 


34  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

"Come  right  in,  dearie;  IVe  been  waiting  for 
you."  They  disappeared  into  the  sanctum 
sanctorum. 

The  little  wizened  lady  who  sat  next  to  me 
snorted  with  impatience:  "Humph!  I  suppose 
that  means  another  half  hour!"  She  fell  to 
gossiping  with  a  man  whose  very  face  sug- 
gested his  "line  of  business" — that  of  Irish 
comedian.  It  was  impossible  not  to  overhear 
their  conversation.  The  gorgeous  creature 
who  had  been  received  with  such  open  arms 
was  a  pet  of  the  establishment,  because  of  her 
generous  and  regular  "retaining  fees."  She 
had  been  a  more  or  less  prominent  society 
woman  from  Chicago;  after  a  sensational  di- 
vorce, she  turned  to  the  stage  for  the  proper 
outlet  for  her  superabundant  "temperament." 
Willing  to  work  for  a  salary  upon  which  no 
self-supporting  woman  could  exist,  and  able  to 
dress  her  parts  "handsomely,"  she  found  no 
difficulty  in  securing  an  engagement.  The  "re- 
taining fees"  no  doubt  facilitated  her  progress. 

I  afterwards  learned  from  Will's  experience 
that  a  cheque  enclosed  in  a  letter  of  application 
to  one  of  these  dramatic  employment  agencies 
stimulated  their  interest  in  the  sender.  And, 
even  after  an  actor  has  made  a  "hit,"  it  is  good 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  35^ 

business  to  lubricate  the  dispenser  of  gifts.  I 
could  not  quite  grasp  the  modus  operandi  jimtil 
it  was  explained  to  me  by  Miss  Burton.  "You 
see,  when  a  manager  contemplates  engaging  a 
company,  he  sends  to  an  agent  for  a  list  of 
names.  Perhaps  he  wants  a  leading  man  or  a 
character  actor,  and  he  may  direct  the  agent  to 
communicate  with  a  certain  actor  whom  he  be- 
lieves to  be  best  suited  to  the  part  he  has  in 
mind.  Now  this  particular  actor  may  not  be 
in  the  good  books  of  the  agent,  or  there  may 
be  another  actor  playing  the  same  line  of  busi- 
ness who  is  regular  and  liberal  with  his  'retain- 
ing fees/  It  is  not  difficult  to  understand 
which  of  the  actors  will  be  suggested — even 
cried  up — to  the  manager."  Our  own  experi- 
ence had  been  to  negotiate  direct  with  the  man- 
agers. But,  in  many  cases,  the  managers  them- 
selves send  the  actors  whom  they  engage  to  a 
favoured  agent  to  complete  the  negotiations. 
In  this  way  the  agent  is  able  to  collect  a  week's 
salary  from  the  actor. 

The  Irish  comedian  figured  the  average  in- 
come of  an  agent  who  "placed"  several  hun- 
dred actors,  with  salaries  ranging  from  thirty 
to  three  hundred  dollars  a  week,  at  $5,000  a 
year.  "And  from  the  fish-hand  they  give  you 


36  MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

when  you  come  lookin'  for  an  engagement 
you'd  think  we  were  the  grafters — damned  old 
parasites!" 

When,  at  last,  the  lady  agent  returned  from 
her  conference,  I  timidly  made  known  my 
wants.  Perhaps  I  looked  like  a  "non-retainer," 
as  the  comedian  dubbed  them,  for  the  corpulent 
person  looked  me  over  suspiciously. 

"Had  any  experience?"  she  broke  in. 

"One  season,"  I  responded. 

"Well,  you  might  leave  your  address,"  she 
snapped,  and  directed  me  to  an  assistant. 

I  went  back  to  Miss  Burton's  friend.  Mr. 
Tom  was  an  Englishman,  with  the  manners  of 
a  gentleman  to  commend  him  if  nothing  else. 
He  greeted  me  pleasantly  and  asked  me  to 
wait.  My  heart  bounded  in  anticipation.  Pres- 
ently he  handed  me  a  letter.  I  recognized  the 
address  upon  the  envelope  as  that  of  a  promi- 
nent manager.  I  was  told  to  go  to  his  office, 
present  the  letter  and  return  to  report  the  out- 
come to  the  agent.  I  rushed  off  with  my  mind 
in  a  whirl.  Already  I  was  outlining  a  tele- 
gram to  Will,  telling  him  of  my  engagement. 
I  began  to  plan  how  I  should  remake  my  last 
season's  dresses  to  avoid  the  expense  of  a  new 
wardrobe.  Only  once  before  had  I  gone  direct 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  37 

to  a  manager  for  an  engagement.  I  look  back 
upon  the  incident  I  am  about  to  relate  with 
amusement  at  my  own  expense.  To  anybody 
and  everybody  who  is  interested  in  the  stage 
the  name  of  Charles  Frohman.was  and  still 
remains  a  kind  of  magic.  When  it  was  deter- 
mined that  the  stage  was  to  be  my  avocation — 
I  use  the  word  advisedly,  since  I  had  never 
been  taught  to  look  upon  any  profession  in  the 
light  of  a  vocation — I  came  direct  to  New 
York  with  the  purpose  of  calling  upon  Mr. 
Frohman,  and  placing  my  talent  at  his  com- 
mand. I  remember  I  dressed  myself  care- 
fully. I  even  powdered  my  face  heavily,  to 
give  the  ear-marks  of  intimate  acquaintance 
with  the  make-up  box.  When  I  entered  the 
office  in  the  Empire  Theatre  Building,  the  office 
boy  was  engaged  in  pasting  newspaper  clippings 
in  a  scrap-book.  A  pretty,  pert  girl  was  type- 
writing at  the  other  end  of  the  room.  The 
office  boy  looked  up  enquiringly.  I  took  my 
courage  in  both  hands. 

"Is  Mr.  Frohman  in?"  I  enquired. 

The  boy  shuffled  into  the  adjoining  room.  I 
busied  myself  by  looking  at  the  photographs 
of  the  actresses  which  lined  the  walls;  my 
heart  was  pumping  fiercely,  but  I  "acted"  the 


38  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

part  of  a  young  lady  with  plenty  of  savoir 
faire.  The  boy  returned,  followed  by  a  middle- 
aged  man  who  smiled  pleasantly  upon  me. 

"Mr.  Frohman?"  I  ventured. 

"Mr.  Frohman  is  not  in,"  he  responded  with 
a  bland  smile. 

I  was  about  to  enquire  when  he  was  ex- 
pected when  I  caught  the  reflection  of  the  office 
boy  in  a  mirror  on  the  wall.  He  was  winking 
broadly  to  the  girl  at  the  typewriter;  I  felt 
the  blood  rising  to  my  face,  and  I  fear  I  made 
a  somewhat  confused  exit. 

Will  had  many  a  good  laugh  over  my  cre- 
dulity. I  had  come  all  the  way  from  an  Indiana 
town  to  see  Mr.  Frohman,  and  there  was  about 
as  much  chance  of  being  admitted  to  his  pres- 
ence as  the  proverbial  camel  has  of  slipping 
through  the  needle's  eye.  Needless  to  say,  I 
never  mustered  sufficient  courage  to  call  on  Mr. 
Frohman  again. 

Today,  however,  I  was  forearmed.  The 
manager  to  whom  I  had  been  recommended  by 
the  agent  sent  out  word  that  I  was  to  wait.  A 
half  hour  later  I  was  conducted  to  his  presence. 
As  I  entered,  he  was  seated  in  a  revolving  chair, 
one  foot  resting  on  a  small  sliding  shelf  on  his 
desk,  and  a  large  black  cigar  in  the  corner  of 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  39 

his  mouth.  He  did  not  rise,  but  nodded  to 
me  and  motioned  me  to  the  seat  opposite. 
While  he  read  the  agent's  letter  he  removed 
his  leg  from  the  table  and  crossed  it  over  the 
other.  He  was  a  short,  heavy  man,  with  a 
preponderance  of  abdomen.  He  had  thick, 
loose  lips,  and  his  head  was  as  round  and  as 
smooth  as  a  billiard  ball;  his  eyes  were  black 
and  snappy,  and  threw  out  as  much  fire  as 
the  huge  diamond  he  wore  on  his  little  finger. 

"Well,"  he  finally  said,  looking  at  me  and 
shifting  the  big  cigar  to  the  other  corner  of 
his  mouth,  "that  reads  all  right.  So  you're  an 
ingenue"  (he  pronounced  it  as  if  it  were  spelled 
on-je-new),  "are  you?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  you  look  the  part  all  right.  .  .  How 
much  experience  have  you  had?" 

"One  season  on  the  road  with  Mr.  O'Brien's 
Company,  but  of  course  I've  played  in  amateur 
theatricals  for  .  .  ' 

"Voice  strong?"  he  bellowed,  tilting  himself 
back  in  his  chair. 

"Oh,  yes,  sir,"  I  responded,  using  the  loud 
pedal  to  prove  my  assertion. 

"Don't  sound  like  it." 

"Perhaps  not  now,  but — "  I  hesitated. 


40  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

"But  what?"  he  queried,  smiling  indulgently 
at  me. 

His  smile  gave  me  courage,  and  I  answered 
truthfully:  "Well,  I  think  I'm  a  little  scared 
just  now." 

"Scared?  What  of?"  He  removed  his  cigar 
while  he  spat  out  an  end  he  had  been  chewing. 
Then  he  lighted  a  match  and  continued  talking. 
"You  don't  want  to  be  scared  of  me — I'm  the 
easiest  thing  you  ever  saw.  .  .  '  Here  he 
winked  at  me.  Then  for  the  next  minute  he 
puffed  at  his  cigar  and  looked  at  me.  "Stand 
up,"  was  his  next  injunction.  .  .  .  "You're  not 
very  big  .  .  you'll  look  the  part  all  right." 

"What  kind  of  a  part  is  it?"  I  ventured. 

"Didn't  Tom  tell  you  about  it?  ...  It's  a 
pretty  part — one  of  them  innocent  country 
maidens  that  never  saw  the  streets  of  Cairo — 
that  kind.  She  falls  in  love  with  a  villain  who 
takes  her  to  the  great  city,  and  then  throws  her 
down — hard.  The  poor  girl's  afraid  to  go 
back  to  home  and  mother,  and  just  as  she's 
about  to  commit  suicide  a  good-natured  sucker 
comes  along  and  marries  her.  It's  sympathetic 
and  appealin' — goes  right  to  the  heart.  Can't 
help  but  make  a  hit.  Dressin'  ain't  much,  and 
we  expect  to  run  all  season  in  New  York." 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  41 

"What's  the  salary?"  meaning  to  appear 
business-like. 

"Twenty-five  in  New  York,  and  thirty  on 
the  road." 

I  did  not  reply,  for  my  mind  was  making 
rapid  calculations.  Twenty-five  dollars  a  week, 
with  the  prospect  of  running  all  season  in 
New  York!  Why,  I  should  be  able  to  pay 
my  own  expenses  and  lay  aside  a  little  be- 
sides. 

"That's  a  good  salary,"  began  the  manager, 
taking  my  silence  for  dissent.  "If  you  make  a 
hit,  I'll  raise  it  five.  I  tell  you  what  I'll  do: 
I'll  give  you  a  letter  to  the  stage  manager. 
They're  rehearsing  now.  The  dame  we  en- 
gaged for  the  part,  way  last  summer,  got  mar- 
ried on  the  quiet,  and  has  got  to  retire  for 
family  reasons."  He  winked  at  me  again,  as 
he  took  up  his  pen.  I  waited  uneasily  while 
he  wrote.  "Here's  the  letter,"  he  said,  mois- 
tening the  flap  of  the  envelope  with  his  lips. 
"Now,  run  along  and  see  Mr.  Thompson  at 
the  Academy.  He's  the  doctor."  He  rose  by 
way  of  dismissal,  and  indicated  a  door  other 
than  which  I  had  entered.  I  thanked  him  and 
assured  him  my  voice  was  quite  strong. 

"You're  a  pretty  little  thing,"  he  said  as  he 


42  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

accompanied  me  to  the  door.  "Pretty  little 
figure  .  .  what  d'ye  weigh?" 

"I  don't  know  really  how  much,  but  I  think 
about  one  hundred  and  ten  pounds,"  I  an- 
swered with  some  confusion. 

"As  much  as  that?  Where  do  you  carry  it 
all?"  He  ran  his  fat,  stubby  hands  over  my 
shoulders  and  down  about  my  hips.  His  smile 
became  a  leer.  Before  I  could  realize  what 
was  happening  he  had  taken  me  in  his  arms, 
and  his  heavy,  wet  lips  were  pressed  against 
my  mouth.  His  hands  played  over  my  body, 
and,  though  I  struggled  to  cry  out  and  to  re- 
lease myself,  I  was  unable  to  do  either.  It 
seemed  as  if  my  senses  were  deserting  me; 
then,  the  muffled  bell  of  the  telephone  sounded, 
and  he  released  me. 

"Damn  that  bell,"  he  said.  Nauseated  with 
disgust  and  fright,  I  cowered  in  the  corner; 
he  tried  to  draw  my  hands  from  my  face, 
laughing  as  he  whispered:  "Like  it,  like  it,  do 
you?"  Then  with  another  oath  at  the  contin- 
ued call  from  the  telephone,  he  crossed  to  his 
desk.  "Run  along  now,"  he  directed,  without 
a  look.  .  .  . 

I  never  knew  how  I  found  my  way  down 
the  stairs  to  the  street.  I  did  not  wait  for  the 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  43 

elevator.  I  saw  that  people  looked  at  me  as 
I  hurried  along  the  street — whither  I  did  not 
ask  myself.  Only  when  I  collided  with  some- 
one on  the  stairs  did  I  realize  that  I  had  gone 
straight  to  the  agent's  office. 

"Hello,  little  lady!"  I  recognized  Miss  Bur- 
ton's voice.  uMy,  we're  in  a  hurry!  For 
God's  sake,  child,  what's  happened  to  you? 
What's  the  matter?  You  look  as  if  you  were 
going  to  throw  a  fit!  Here — let's  go  to  a 
drug  store." 

After  a  dose  of  sal  volatile,  Miss  Burton 
called  a  hansom  and  insisted  on  taking  me 
home.  I  did  not  want  her  to  accompany  me. 
I  wanted  to  be  alone.  When  we  were  safely 
in  the  house  I  lost  all  control.  She  let  me 
have  my  cry  out  without  asking  a  question. 
Then,  when  I  was  calmer,  I  told  her  what  had 
happened. 

"The  old  blackguard !  The  old  blackguard ! 
I've  heard  that  about  him  before.  Why  didn't 
you  hand  him  one  ?  Why  didn't  you  smack  his 
face?" 

"I'll  leave  that  to  my  husband,"  I  replied 
with  tearful  dignity. 

Miss  Burton  contemplated  me  between  vio- 
lent puffs  of  her  cigarette.  Then  she  shook 


44  MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

her  head.  uUm-um,  girlie;  no,  sir  .  .  you 
mustn't  tell  your  husband." 

"Why  not?"  I  demanded. 

"Well,  if  you  tell  your  husband,  and  he's 
the  man  I  think  he  is,  he'll  go  straight  up  and 
knock  the  old  beast  down.  That  will  get  him 
in  bad;  this  manager  is  a  power  and  controls 
a  dozen  attractions,  as  well  as  theatres.  Your 
young  man  may  find  it  difficult  to  get  an  en- 
gagement in  the  future." 

Miss  Burton  paused  to  allow  the  idea  to 
percolate  into  my  brain. 

"Then  there's  another  side  to  it.  If  you 
tell  your  husband  and  he  does  not  go  up  and 
knock  the  fresh  gentleman  down,  you'll  de- 
spise him  for  it  .  .  oh,  yes  you  will!  You 
would  not  acknowledge  it  even  to  yourself,  but, 
way  down  deep  in  the  bottom  of  your  heart, 
you  would  never  forgive  your  husband  for  not 
resenting  the  insult  to  you.  .  .  .  Better  not 
tell  him  at  all.  ..." 

We  both  were  silent  for  some  time.  I  was 
struggling  with  a  thousand  conflicting  emo- 
tions. 

"You  see,  girlie,  you've  got  an  awful  lot 
to  learn.  You're  new  to  the  game.  That's 
the  reason  these  things  go  so  hard  with  you." 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  45 

"Do  you  mean  that  'these  things'  are  a  part 
— a  regular  part — of  the  business?"  I  began, 
with  a  burst  of  resentment.  "I  don't  believe 
it !  I  can't  believe  it !  I'm  sure  my  experience 
was  exceptional.  I  know  that  girls  who  type- 
write for  a  living,  clerks  and  even  housemaids 
have  unpleasant  experiences,  for  I  have  read 
about  it  in  the  papers.  There  are  bad  men  in 
all  walks  of  life.  I  travelled  nearly  a  whole 
season  before  I  was  married,  and — " 

I  stopped  short.  My  mind  visualized  a  sit- 
uation. When  I  joined  the  company  in  which 
I  met  my  husband  I  was  singled  out  for 
marked  attention  by  the  star.  I  believed  this 
attention  to  be  a  kindly  interest  in  a  novice. 
It  never  occurred  to  me  to  question  the  intent 
and  purpose.  I  was  the  understudy  for  the 
leading  woman;  the  star  had  told  me  that  I 
had  exceptional  talent,  and  with  the  proper 
direction  I  should  develop  into  a  splendid  emo- 
tional actress.  Quite  often  we  would  have  pri- 
vate rehearsals — sometimes  in  the  theatre,  but 
more  often  in  the  star's  apartment  in  the  hotel. 
Invariably  we  rehearsed  alone.  I  was  flat- 
tered and  sincerely  appreciative  of  the  star's 
efforts  to  develop  my  talent;  we  played  scenes 
from  Romeo  and  Juliet,  and  my  star  played 


46  MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

Romeo  with  such  fervour  that  I  quite  forgot 
my  lines.  When  the  star's  wife  joined  the 
company  the  rehearsals  were  suspended;  it 
seemed  quite  natural  to  me  that  the  star 
wished  to  devote  his  time  to  his  wife.  She 
was  still  a  beautiful  woman,  though  her  face 
was  sad  and  bore  a  discontented  expression. 
She  kept  aloof  from  the  Company,  and  it  was 
said  that  she  did  not  approve  of  stage-folk, 
especially  the  women.  I  wondered  why  she 
had  married  an  actor.  Later,  when  Will  and 
I  became  friends,  he  questioned  me  about  these 
private  rehearsals;  then  I  began  to  notice  that 
he  managed  to  drop  in  for  a  call  on  the  star 
when  we  rehearsed  at  the  hotel,  or  he  would 
wait  about  the  stage  when  we  were  in  the  thea- 
tre. This  happened  frequently  as  our  court- 
ship progressed.  I  recalled  how,  one  day 
when  Will  was  discovered  in  the  wings,  that 
the  star  called  out  to  him  quite  irritably,  "You 
were  not  called  for  rehearsal,  were  you,  Mr. 
Hartley?  You're  not  needed,  and  your  pres- 
ence makes  Miss  Gray  self-conscious." 

Shortly  after  that  Will  insisted  upon  an- 
nouncing our  betrothal  to  the  star.  I  never 
went  to  rehearsals  unattended  after  that,  and 
the  calls  became  less  frequent.  Soon  they  were 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND  4? 

abandoned  altogether.  Now,  for  the  first 
time,  I  understood  Will's  watchfulness — per- 
haps I  understood  why  the  star's  wife  had  so 
sad  a  face.  .  .  . 

uAnd  what?"  Miss  Burton  repeated  after 
me. 

"I  was  thinking,  that  was  all." 

"Girlie,  you'll  never  get  on  in  the  show 
business,  unless  .  .  .  look  here,  I'm  going  to 
open  your  eyes  to  a  few  things  that  may  come 
handy  to  you.  .  .  .  I've  been  on  the  stage 
since  I  was  a  kiddie;  I  was  born  in  it.  I  made 
my  first  appearance  in  my  mother's  arms,  and 
they  say  I  never  waited  for  cues,  but  yelled 
right  through  other  people's  lines.  I  grew  up 
in  railroad  trains,  hotels  and  theatres.  I  was 
wise  to  the  game  before  I  was  out  of  short 
skirts.  Anything  I  did  was  done  with  my 
eyes  wide  open.  I  was  never  stage-struck,  like 
you,  and  so  many  fool  girls  who  look  on  act- 
ing as  a  'divine  art.'  I  had  to  make  my  own 
living,  and  the  stage  offers  a  pretty  good  liv- 
ing if  you  are  willing  to  play  the  game."  Miss 
Burton  looked  at  me  significantly. 

"Play  the  game?"  I  asked. 

uYes,  that's  just  what  I  mean.  .  .  .  Virtue 
and  chastity  have  about  as  much  chance  in  the 


48  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

show-business  as  that  famous  little  snowball  of 
purgatorial  fame.  I  don't  know  of  any  other 
profession  where  immorality  is  a  virtue.  I  sup- 
pose that's  what  you  call  a  paradox.  Virtue 
and  success  do  not  go  hand  in  hand  in  this 
business — even  our  mothers  recognize  the 
truth  of  the  statement  and  wink  at  it.  Your 
average  stage  mamma  values  virtue  in  the  ra- 
tio of  the  advancement  its  possession  assures. 
Let  any  star  or  manager  cast  covetous  eyes 
upon  her  daughter,  let  her  but  scent  leading 
lady — or  stardom — and  she  will  not  only  lend 
herself  to  intrigue  but  encourage  it.  She 
knows  the  game;  she  knows  that  a  girl,  no 
matter  how  pretty,  how  talented,  cannot  get 
on  in  the  show-business  without  'giving  up.' 
She's  got  to  have  money  or  influence,  or  both. 
I  don't  know  what  there  is  about  the  stage 
that  brings  out  the  baser  passions,  but  I  do 
know  that  it's  rotten  to  the  core.  And  the 
worst  of  it  is,  that  the  good  is  sacrificed  to  the 
bad.  Girls  like  you  are  drawn  to  the  stage  by 
its  illusion  and  romance.  With  others,  it's 
the  looseness,  the  freedom  from  restraint  that 
appeals.  There  never  was  a  woman  with  a 
screw  loose  in  her  moral  machinery  who  didn't 
hanker  for  the  stage.  Why?  Because  it's  a 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  49 

convenient  place  to  show  goods.  Every  mil- 
lionaire, every  fur-tongued  man  about  town 
looks  upon  the  women  of  the  stage  as  his  legiti- 
mate prey.  You've  only  got  to  mention  the 
fact  that  you  are,  directly  or  indirectly,  con- 
nected with  the  show-business,  to  lay  yourself 
open  to  the  advances  of  the  male  creature  who 
thinks  he  is  sporty.  You  may  be  as  chaste  as 
ice  and  as  pure  as  snow,  but  the  chances  are 
against  it,  if  you  are  on  the  stage." 

I  felt  choked  with  indignation.  "I  don't  be* 
lieve  you,  I  don't  believe  it's  true,"  I  stormed. 
"Look  at  such  women  as — "  (I  named  a  num- 
ber of  prominent  women  stars).  "They  are 
honoured  and  respected " 

"You  mean  their  accomplishment,  their  art 
is  honoured.  Each  and  every  one  of  these 
women  has  been  grist  to  the  mill.  Do  you 
suppose  that  side  of  it  ever  reaches  the  public? 
No,  and  what's  more,  it's  none  of  the  public's 
business.  These  women  are  successful.  The 
price  they  have  paid  is  their  own  secret.  Don't 
misunderstand  me — I'm  not  sitting  in  judg- 
ment on  the  women  of  the  stage,  any  more 
than  I  would  sit  in  judgment  on  you  if  you 
went  wrong.  I'm  telling  you  the  conditions 
that  exist — conditions  which  every  woman  who 


50  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

enters  the  theatrical  profession  has  got  to  face 
sooner  or  later.  You  had  your  first  experi- 
ence today.  .  .  ." 

It  had  grown  quite  dark  in  the  room.  Miss 
Burton  got  up  and  moved  about  in  the  twi- 
light. I  almost  hated  her.  I  could  not  pre- 
vent myself  from  saying,  "Do  you  think  it  is 
nice  to  befoul  your  own  nest?" 

She  answered  me  gently:  "You  don't  under- 
stand my  motive,  girlie.  I  wouldn't  say  these 
things  to  an  outsider  for  anything  in  the  world. 
Why,  if  a  thing  like  this  were  to  be  given  to 
the  public,  the  whole  theatrical  profession 
would  rush  into  print  to  deny  it.  There  would 
be  an  awful  noise,  but  each  and  every  one  of 
them  knows  it's  the  truth,  God's  truth,  and 
nothing  but  the  truth." 

We  were  again  silent.  Miss  Burton  sighed 
heavily. 

"You  know,  girlie,  if  I  were  an  artist  I 
should  like  to  paint  my  conception  of  the  'di- 
vine art.'  The  divine  art  is  a  soulless  procu- 
ress; she  takes  your  youth,  your  beauty 
and  your  virtue.  She  saps  you  dry,  and, 
at  the  first  signs  of  age,  she  turns  you 


out." 


Miss  Burton  stopped  in  front  of  the  large 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  51 

photograph  of  Will  which  adorned  the  man- 
tel. After  a  lengthy  scrutiny,  she  said: 

"Fine  head!  Looks  as  if  he  would  have 
made  a  good  lawyer." 

"He  was  educated  for  the  law,"  I  answered 
proudly. 

Miss  Burton  looked  out  of  the  window  with 
a  far-away  look.  Then  she  came  to  me  and 
took  both  my  hands  in  hers. 

"Little  girl,  why  don't  you  persuade  him  to 
give  up  the  stage  and  go  back  to  the  law?" 

"Because  he  does  not  like  the  law,  and  be- 
cause he  has  a  great  career  as  an  actor  ahead 
of  him,"  I  retorted,  feeling  myself  on  the 
verge  of  tears. 

After  Miss  Burton  had  donned  her  hat  and 
gloves,  and  stood  with  her  hand  on  the  door- 
knob, she  spoke  again: 

"I'll  see  Tom  to-morrow,  and  have  him  set 
you  right  with  that  old  beast." 

"Set  me  right!" 

"Yes,  for  not  showing  up  at  the  Academy. 
I'll  say  you  got  in  a  trolley  jam,  and  when  you 
arrived  there  they  had  gone.  You  can  show 
up  bright  and  early  tomorrow — don't  you  in- 
tend to  take  the  engagement?" 

"Not  if  I  never  got  another  engagement  in 


52  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

my  life!"  I  declared,  with  a  wave  of  disgust 
passing  over  me. 

Miss  Burton  drew  me  into  her  arms  and 
kissed  me  impulsively:  "Stick  to  that,  girlie, 
and  God  bless  you!"  and  she  rushed  off.  .  .  . 

I  didn't  sleep  much  that  night.  Early  the 
next  morning  came  a  telegram  from  Will,  say- 
ing he  expected  to  be  home  on  Sunday.  His 
Company  was  to  "lay  off"  and  rehearse  two 
weeks,  preparatory  to  "the  assault"  on  Broad- 
way, as  he  expressed  it.  The  knowledge  that 
I  should  soon  feel  his  arms  around  me  acted 
like  a  tonic.  My  resentment  against  Miss  Bur- 
ton gave  way  to  pity.  Why  were  not  all  hus- 
bands and  wives  as  much  in  love  with  each 
9ther  as  were  Will  and  I? 


CHAPTER    III 

THE  boy  Hamlet  failed  to  attract  the  public. 
After  two  weeks  on  Broadway  the  notice  went 
up.  The  Company  was  to  reorganize,  which, 
in  this  instance,  meant  reducing  expenses — and 
"back  to  the  woods."  Will  agreed  to  double 
the  King  with  the  Ghost  for  a  small  rise  of 
salary  and  the  condition  that  I  be  added  to  the 
roster.  In  return  for  my  railroad  fares  I 
played  one  of  the  strolling  players  and  the 
Player-Queen.  The  Company  made  one  night 
stands  only;  we  made  early  and  long  jumps  to 
out-of-the-way  towns,  which  Will  declared 
were  not  on  the  map.  The  hotels  were  often 
so  bad  that  we  were  driven  to  patronizing  the 
village  grocer,  and  to  supplement  our  meals 
with  chafing-dish  messes.  Through  rain,  snow 
and  slush  we  plodded  our  way  to  the  railroad 
stations;  sometimes  there  was  a  hack  and  the 
women  rode  back  and  forth.  The  theatres 
were  cold  and  the  dressing-rooms  filthy.  The 
stage  entrance  invariably  gave  upon  a  foul- 

53 


54  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

smelling  alley,  and  a  penetrating  draught 
swept  the  stage  when  the  curtain  was  up.  Once, 
after  Will  in  the  character  of  the  King  had 
been  killed  by  Hamlet  and  lay  dead  upon  the 
stage,  he  sneezed  explosively.  The  audience 
appeared  to  enjoy  the  situation.  But,  in  spite 
of  the  physical  discomforts  and  the  stultifying 
grind,  we  were  happy — we  were  together. 

By  the  end  of  the  season  we  had  saved  al- 
most three  hundred  dollars.  Then  Will 
played  a  few  weeks  with  a  summer  stock  com- 
pany— a  "summer  snap,"  as  it  is  termed — and 
in  the  autumn  we  were  able  to  make  a  stand 
for  the  much-desired  joint  engagement. 

When  the  Company  gathered  at  the  rail- 
road station  bound  for  a  city  of  the  middle 
West,  it  more  resembled  a  family  party  than  a 
theatrical  organization.  The  manager  himself 
played  a  part,  and  his  wife  was  the  lady  vil- 
lain. The  comedienne  and  the  stage  carpen- 
ter were  man  and  wife,  and  the  leading  lady — 
a  girl  not  much  older  than  I — was  chaperoned 
by  her  mother.  Will  was  the  leading  man  and 
I  the  ingenue.  There  was  the  prospect  of  a 
pleasant  season  ahead.  I  smiled  a  little  con- 
temptuously when  I  thought  of  Miss  Burton's 
terrible  arraignment  of  the  stage.  She  had 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  55, 

been  unfortunate  in  her  association,  that  was 
all,  I  told  myself. 

The  comedienne  and  I  shared  dressing- 
rooms.  She  was  a  beautiful  woman  with  a 
strain  of  Latin  blood.  I  loved  her  from  the 
first  moment  I  met  her.  I  was  disappointed 
in  her  husband;  her  superior  breeding  and 
education  caused  me  to  wonder  at  her  choice. 
Later,  when  I  better  understood  the  needs  of 
the  woman,  I  grew  to  like  him;  he  was  clean- 
minded  and  sincere — virtues  I  later  discov- 
ered to  be  rare  ones  among  actors. 

It  was  about  the  second  week  of  the  season 
when  our  family  party  first  showed  signs  of 
incompatibility.  There  had  been  some  gossip 
connecting  the  leading  lady's  name  with  that 
of  the  manager,  but  as  she  was  protected  by 
her  mother  it  appeared  to  me  ridiculous  and 
unwarranted.  One  night,  as  the  curtain  fell 
on  the  first  act,  the  manager's  wife  ordered 
the  leading  lady's  mother  out  of  the  wings. 
Immediately  there  followed  a  war  of  high- 
pitched  voices  which  penetrated  the  walls  of 
our  aerial  dressing-room.  The  curtain  was 
held  and  the  orchestra  played  its  third  over- 
ture. 

During  the  wait  Margherita,  my  dressing- 


56  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

room  mate,  told  me  the  circumstances  of  the 
case.  The  leading  lady's  mother  was  the 
"friend"  of  the  "angel"  of  the  Company;  in 
this  capacity  she  assumed  privileges  which 
were  galling  to  the  manager's  wife.  Adding 
to  this  the  fact  that  her  husband  was  too  obvi- 
ously interested  in  the  leading  lady,  the  out- 
break was  not  to  be  wondered  at.  The  mana- 
ger himself  was  one  of  those  round,  flabby 
men,  suggestive  of  a  fat,  spineless  worm. 
Physique  is  often  coindicant  of  character. 

This  night  the  mother  had  been  more  ob- 
noxious than  usual.  It  was  her  habit  to  stand 
in  the  wings  while  the  manager's  wife  was  on 
the  scene,  and  by  petty  distractions  to  goad  the 
actress  to  expression. 

Gradually  members  of  the  Company  were 
drawn  into  the  dissension;  it  was  an  intolera- 
ble situation.  Our  sympathies  were  with  the 
manager's  wife,  but  we  diplomatically  held 
aloof.  Matters  finally  reached  a  climax.  One 
night  during  the  performance  there  was  a  stage 
wait.  In  vain  Will  and  the  heavy  man  filled 
in  the  hiatus.  The  manager's  wife  had  sur- 
prised the  leading  lady  in  the  arms  of  her  hus- 
band somewhere  behind  the  scenes,  and  there- 
upon slapped  the  girl's  face.  A  moment  later 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  57 

she  came  upon  the  stage  to  play  her  "big" 
scene;  she  was  labouring  under  great  emotion, 
and  I  thought  she  had  never  acted  so  well.  In 
a  speech  to  me  (I  played  her  daughter) — it 
was  part  of  the  stage  business  that  I  take  her 
hand  in  mine;  I  am  not  sure  that  I  did  not 
press  her  hand  in  silent  sympathy.  She  drew 
me  towards  her;  in  another  moment  the  lady 
villain  was  sobbing  in  my  arms,  and  there  was 
an  emotional  storm  not  indicated  in  the  manu- 
script of  the  author.  I  led  her  up  stage  as  the 
house  fairly  rose  to  her  splendid  acting.  When 
the  storms  of  applause  had  died  away  we  went 
on  with  the  scene  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

I  wonder  why  it  is  that  women  invariably 
punish  their  own  sex  and  exempt  the  man?  Do 
they  instinctively  demand  a  higher  code  of  hon- 
our from  their  kind  while  meekly  acquiescent 
to  the  conventional  license  for  men? 

Subsequently  the  "angel"  joined  the  Com- 
pany, and,  to  all  appearances,  an  adjustment 
was  reached.  For  a  time  peace  was  restored. 
The  leading  lady  assumed  an  air  of  injured 
innocence,  and  left  off  rouging  her  cheeks  to 
heighten  the  effect.  Then,  suddenly — or  grad- 
ually, I  never  realized  how  it  came  about — it 
became  obvious  to  all  that  the  leading  lady 


58  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

was  "making  a  play"  for  Will.  Her  atten- 
tions became  so  marked  that  the  men  of  the 
Company  chaffed  him  about  it,  declaring  the 
manager  would  presently  challenge  him  to 
mortal  combat,  or — and  what  was  more  likely 
— discharge  him  from  the  Company.  Will 
accepted  their  allusions  in  good  part,  but  I  ob- 
served the  subject  was  distasteful  to  him.  To 
me  he  called  the  woman  "a  little  fool,"  and 
was  irritated  with  being  placed  in  so  ridiculous 
a  position.  Indeed  I  think  Will  suffered  as 
much  as  I  did.  Without  being  rude  or  boor- 
ish, there  was  nothing  he  could  do  to  check 
her  advances.  She  was  planning  her  debut  as 
a  star  the  following  season,  and  made  Will  a 
proposition  to  become  her  leading  man;  she 
consulted  him  concerning  the  new  plays  which 
were  being  submitted  to  her,  and  planned  for 
the  current  season  special  matinees  of  classic 
plays  with  which  Will  was  familiar.  She 
called  him  to  preliminary  rehearsal  and  dis- 
cussions in  her  rooms  at  the  hotel;  sometimes, 
between  the  acts  of  the  performance,  called 
him  to  her  dressing-room,  where  she  received 
him  in  a  state  of  neglige.  New  bits  of  stage 
business  were  introduced,  or  the  old  elabo- 
rated; she  would  run  her  fingers  through  his 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  59 

hair,  or  prolong  the  kisses  which  the  role  de- 
manded; or,  in  his  embrace,  she  would  draw 
her  body  close  to  his  and  writhe  about  him  to 
a  point  of  indecency.  In  countless,  intangible 
ways  she  brought  her  blandishments  to  bear 
upon  him.  Will  declared  she  was  playing  him 
against  the  manager,  whose  relations  with  her 
had  become  strained  since  his  wife  had  inter- 
fered. In  all  things  she  was  aided  and  abet- 
ted by  her  mother,  who  fawned  on  Will  and 
made  his  position  the  more  equivocal.  My 
own  emotions  were  confused;  it  was  inconceiv- 
able that  I  should  be  jealous  of  the  woman. 
No,  the  sensation  she  aroused  was  nothing 
more  than  disgust.  To  be  jealous  of  my  hus- 
band connoted  a  lack  of  faith,  and  he  had  done 
nothing  to  betray  my  trust  in  him. 

Jealousy  had  always  appeared  to  me  a  de- 
basing and  an  undignified  emotion.  ...  I  re- 
sented the  position  in  which  my  husband  was 
placed;  I  would  not  add  to  his  discomfiture  by 
hectoring.  I  had  promised  myself  when  I 
married  that  never  should  I  be  jealous  when 
I  saw  my  husband  making  stage-love  to  an- 
other woman — perhaps  in  the  back  of  my 
mind  was  the  hope  that  I  should  always  be  the 
other  woman,  his  leading  lady.  Nevertheless, 


60  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

I  was  determined  to  stand  the  test  without 
flinching.  It  was  high  time  that  I  began  to 
realize  that  the  conditions  which  confronted 
me  were  but  a  part  of  the  game — the  game! 
The  word  was  reminiscent  of  Miss  Burton. 
I  fought  down  the  suggestion  blindly,  passion- 
ately. ...  I  began  to  dread  going  to  the  the- 
atre; often,  while  I  was  making  up,  I  found 
Margherita's  eyes  fastened  wistfully  upon  me 
— they  told  how  she  longed  to  comfort  me. 
Unhappily  I  could  not  talk  about  the  thing 
which  was  troubling  me.  What  was  there  to 
say?  There  are  emotions  which  never  find 
tangible  expression.  Then  the  idea  of  asking 
my  husband  to  resign  from  the  Company  sug- 
gested itself.  I  endeavoured  to  look  at  the 
question  from  a  material  standpoint:  it  would 
not  be  easy  to  find  another  engagement  in  mid- 
season,  besides,  there  were  the  expensive  rail- 
road fares  back  to  New  York — we  were  then 
touring  California — and  probably  another 
separation.  .  .  . 

Perhaps  it  was  the  strain  of  hard  travel,  or 
it  may  have  been  the  certainty  of  my  condi- 
tion which  I  had  heretofore  only  suspected,  or 
a  combination  of  both,  which  made  me  lose 
my  self-control.  I  had  always  believed 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  61 

strongly  in  the  influence  of  suggestion  upon 
the  unborn  child,  and  the  unclean  atmosphere 
in  which  I  was  living  preyed  upon  my  mind 
until  it  became  an  obsession.  I  grew  to  hate 
the  woman  and  her  witch-like  mother.  We  had 
had  some  racking  railroad  jumps,  and  the  loss 
of  sleep  was  telling  on  every  member  of  the 
Company;  the  leading  lady  was  stimulating  on 
champagne.  Her  mother  stood  in  the  wings, 
bottle  and  glass  in  hand,  and  applied  the  re- 
storative whenever  the  girl  came  off  the  stage. 
One  night,  under  the  influence  of  the  wine,  she 
became  more  brazen  in  her  advances  to  Will; 
she  took  liberties  which  made  even  her  mother, 
watching  in  the  wings,  gasp  with  amusement. 
Something  she  said  sotto  voce  to  her  mother 
reached  my  ears.  I  began  to  watch  her.  As 
the  act  progressed  she  elaborated  the  detail 
with  ever-increasing  audacity,  and,  when  the 
action  required  her  to  throw  herself  in  Will's 
arms,  she  flung  me  a  look  of  laughing  defiance, 
coincident  with  a  broad  wink  to  her  mother — 
old  Hecate  of  the  wings — then  fed  upon  his 
lips  like  a  vampire  sucking  blood. 

I  am  not  sure  that  I  responded  to  the  cue 
which  some  seconds  later  brought  her  into  my 
arms.  (We  were  fellow  Nihilists  under  ar- 


62  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

rest.)  The  contact  of  her  hand  against  mine 
.  .  .  Will  told  me  afterwards  he  would  never 
have  believed  me  possessed  of  such  physical 
strength.  I  choked  her.  ...  I  drove  my 
nails  into  her  flesh.  ...  I  dragged  her  to  the 
wings  and  beat  her  with  my  fists.  ...  I  vented 
upon  her  the  long  pent-up  fury.  .  .  .  Oh,  the 
shame,  the  ignominy  of  it!  I,  who  resented 
a  vicious  influence  upon  my  unborn  child — I, 
its  mother,  had  descended  to  the  level  of  a 
fishwife !  ...  It  was  Margherita  who  brought 
me  back  to  consciousness;  it  was  she  who  re- 
stored to  me  a  modicum  of  my  self-respect.  I 
believe  she  was  secretly  pleased  at  what  I  had 
done. 

That  night,  as  she  sat  beside  my  bed,  she 
told  me  something  of  herself.  As  a  young 
girl  she  possessed  a  wonderful  singing  voice. 
Her  parents — poor  Italians — who  came  to 
America  when  she  was  a  babe  in  arms,  could 
not  afford  proper  masters.  She  went  on  the 
stage  to  support  herself,  hoping  to  earn  enough 
to  pay  for  her  musical  education.  Her  beauty 
attracted  a  patron  "of  the  arts";  at  least,  that 
is  the  way  he  was  referred  to  in  the  news- 
papers. But  it  was  not  Margherita's  art  that 
he  cared  about — it  was  the  woman.  He  con- 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  63 

sidered  his  money  a  fair  exchange  for  her 
body;  Margherita  was  not  willing  to  pay  the 
price.  She  struggled  on,  and  one  day,  after 
several  years  of  hazardous  existence,  she 
found  herself  stranded  in  a  far  Western  city 
without  money,  without  friends.  In  a  state  of 
despondency  she  had  walked  to  the  outskirts 
of  the  town,  and  there  in  a  lonely  wood  she 
sat  down  to  fight  out  a  choice  between  life  and 
death.  In  a  moment  of  emotion  she  burst 
forth  into  song;  her  troubled  soul  found  solace 
in  Gounod's  A*ve  Maria.  At  the  end  her  voice 
broke,  and  she  sobbed.  A  hand  was  laid  on 
her  shoulder.  It  was  a  big  hand,  strong  and 
sinewy.  The  man  that  went  with  it  was  big — 
"big  all  the  way  through,"  Margherita  said 
proudly.  They  were  married  not  long  after; 
ever  since  he  had  remained  at  her  side,  help- 
ing to  fight  for  a  clean  career  .  .  .  making 
her  life's  work  his.  .  .  .  Dear  Margherita !  I 
can  see  you  now,  with  your  glorious  black  eyes, 
your  coronet  of  raven  hair  with  the  poppies 
over  your  pretty  ear.  .  .  .  Oh,  the  pity  of  it! 
Weakened  by  the  hardships  and  privation  her 
life  entailed,  she  died  a  few  years  later.  .  .  . 
When  Will  came  into  the  room  that  night, 
he  held  a  paper  in  his  hand.  It  was  our  resig- 


64  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

nation.  His  eyes  twinkled  with  humour 
when  he  told  Margherita  that  he  was  taking 
the  bull  by  the  horns,  and  sparing  us  the  ig- 
nominy of  dismissal.  I  was  glad  to  see  he 
was  not  angry  with  me.  Then  Margherita 
whispered  something  into  his  ear.  He  came 
to  the  bed  and  took  me  in  his  arms,  and  what 
he  said  concerns  only  a  man  and  wife.  .  .  . 
Margherita  stole  away,  but  before  she  went 
she  kissed  us  both,  and  there  were  tears  in  her 
eyes. 

On  the  way  back  to  New  York,  Will  and  I 
sat  hand  in  hand  looking  out  at  the  mono- 
tonous stretch  of  desert-land.  "I'm  glad  to 
have  it  over — I'm  glad  that's  out  of  our  life," 
he  reiterated,  pressing  my  hand.  "It  was  rot- 
ten!" Suddenly  he  burst  out  laughing.  He 
continued  long  and  sonorously.  "Do  you 
know,  girlie,"  he  said,  "do  you  know  that  with 
a  little  more  fullness  of  figure  and  a  pair  of 
two-inch  heels,  you'd  make  a  grand  Lady  Mac- 
beth? Phew!"  and  he  laughed  again. 


CHAPTER    IV 

THE  question  of  bearing  children  had  given 
me  many  a  bad  hour.  My  husband  felt  that 
the  coming  of  a  child,  at  the  outset  of  his  ca- 
reer, would  be  a  burden  and  a  handicap;  once 
he  was  established  and  could  afford  to  main- 
tain a  home,  it  would  be  time  enough,  he  de- 
clared. He  felt  that,  at  best,  children  born 
and  reared  in  the  theatrical  profession  were 
the  victims  of  unnatural  conditions.  It  was 
not  practicable  to  carry  a  young  child  about 
the  country,  and,  if  left  behind,  to  the  care  of 
either  relatives  or  hired  attendants,  the  child 
was  robbed  of  its  natural  protection.  Obvi- 
ously I  must  make  up  my  mind  to  separate 
from  one  or  the  other — my  child  or  my  hus- 
band— until  the  little  one  was  old  enough  to 
travel. 

Here  arose  another  knotty  problem.  Chil- 
dren are  little  human  sponges;  they  absorb  the 
atmosphere  of  their  environment.  A  stage- 
child  is  no  more  immune  to  the  vicious  influ- 


66  MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

cnces  about  it  than  to  a  scarlet-fever  germ. 
Should  I  then  be  willing  to  expose  my  child 
to  dangers  of  more  far-reaching  consequences 
than  physical  ailments,  and  at  a  time  of  life 
when  character  is  formed?  My  husband  and 
I  discussed  these  problems  at  length,  and 
finally  concluded  that,  since  the  inevitable  had 
happened,  the  wisest  course  was  to  make  the 
best  of  it.  How  many  children,  I  wonder,  arc 
conceived  in  the  same  spirit?  How  many 
births  the  result  of  accident?  How  few 
planned  with  the  wish  to  bestow  the  best  of 
one's  flesh  and  spirit  upon  the  little  stranger? 
Can  the  influence  of  unwelcome  conception 
upon  the  child  itself  ever  be  computed?  May 
not  criminal  tendencies  and  moral  delinquencies 
be  traced  to  such  a  source?  If,  at  the  begin- 
ning, I  were  guilty  of  misdirected  sentiment, 
I  set  myself  to  right  the  wrong  as  the  weeks 
grew  into  months.  I  no  longer  chafed  at  sepa- 
ration; I  lived  in  a  kind  of  spiritual  exalta- 
tion. My  plans  and  dreams  of  the  future 
were  now  transferred  to  the  coming  of  my 
child. 

Will  was  so  fortunate  as  to  secure  another 
engagement  almost  immediately.  His  success 
led  to  the  opportunity  he  most  desired,  and  in 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  67 

the  early  autumn  he  played  his  first  engage- 
ment as  leading  man  of  a  New  York  produc- 
tion. The  Company  opened  out  of  town;  in 
theatrical  parlance  this  is  what  they  call  "try- 
ing it  on  the  dog." 

Our  boy  was  born  during  Will's  absence.  It 
must  have  been  very  hard  for  Will  to  have  the 
nervous  strain  of  a  first  night's  performance 
and  the  worry  of  my  illness  at  the  same  time. 
I  had  gone  to  the  hospital  alone.  Will  had 
made  the  arrangements  before  he  left  town. 
He  said  he  would  feel  better  if  he  knew  I  was 
in  skilled  hands  and  not  at  the  mercies  of  a 
lodginghouse-keeper.  It  seemed  cruel  to  be 
alone  at  such  a  time.  I  cried  a  little  when  the 
big,  cheery  nurse  held  my  boy  for  me  to  kiss. 
...  I  wanted  Will's  arms  around  me  as  I  had 
never  longed  for  them  before — or  after.  .  .  . 
The  little  chap  had  black  hair  like  Will's,  and 
his  forehead  bulged  in  the  same  way.  I  had 
always  admired  Will's  forehead.  .  .  . 

Baby  was  six  weeks  old  when  his  father  first 
saw  him.  I  laughed  when  he  held  the  boy  in 
his  arms — he  appeared  so  awkward.  After  a 
successful  New  York  opening,  the  play  settled 
down  for  a  run.  We  moved  from  our  fur- 
nished room  to  an  apartment.  Will  found  it 


68  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

difficult  to  sleep  with  a  crying  baby  in  the  same 
room.  With  the  coming  of  the  child,  and  the 
"front"  Will's  new  position  demanded,  it  was 
hard  to  make  both  ends  meet;  for  a  long  time 
I  did  the  housework  except  the  washing,  but 
when  my  health  began  to  fail  Will  made  me 
hire  a  servant. 

Will  was  very  fond  of  our  little  boy.  Even 
as  a  small  baby,  the  child  showed  his  prefer- 
ence for  his  father;  he  would  stop  crying  the 
moment  he  heard  Will's  voice.  Indeed,  I  be- 
lieve that  when  temptation  lured  him  in  her 
most  attractive  form  it  was  the  child  who  held 
him  close  to  me. 

Temptation  there  was  plenty;  his  success  had 
been  unqualified.  The  critics  hailed  him  as  a 
young  man  with  a  great  future.  His  pictures 
began  to  appear  in  the  magazines  and  in  the 
pictorial  supplements  of  the  Sunday  papers. 
He  joined  an  actors'  club,  where  he  dined  on 
matinee  days.  Will's  family  developed  a  pride 
in  him,  hitherto  carefully  suppressed.  They 
had  shown  decided  disapproval  of  our  mar- 
riage when  it  became  expedient  to  announce  it 
to  them.  My  introduction  to  the  family,  dur- 
ing the  week  our  late-lamented  Company  had 
played  Will's  home  city,  was  strained  and  un- 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  69 

satisfactory.  Now,  however,  the  sight  of  the 
family  name  in  print  gave  unalloyed  joy  to 
Will's  father,  who  collected  newspaper  clip- 
pings for  Will's  scrap-book  with  more  zeal 
than  did  Will  himself.  Will  said  this  sudden 
interest  reminded  him  of  a  story  he  had  heard 
at  the  club.  It  ran  like  this : 

A  handsome  young  Irishman  of  humble  par- 
entage had  long  yearned  for  the  footlights. 
Unable  longer  to  restrain  himself,  he  con- 
fided his  ambitions  to  his  mother.  Now,  the 
old  lady  was  an  ardent  church-goer,  and 
looked  upon  the  stage  as  a  quick  chute  to  per- 
dition. 

"Jimmie,  Jimmie,  me  boy!  To  think  you'd 
want  to  be  an  actor!  To  think  you'd  want  to 
bring  shame  on  your  old  mother,  this  disgrace 
on  your  dead  father's  good  name !" 

The  old  lady  rocked  herself  to  and  fro 
in  her  grief.  In  vain  Jimmie  endeavoured 
to  soothe  her.  Finally  the  idea  occurred  to 
him. 

"But,  mither,  mither,  darlin',"  he  caressed, 
"I'll  not  bring  disgrace  on  your  name — you 
know  actors  always  change  their  names  when 
they  go  on  the  stage,  and  no  one  will  ever 
know  who  I  am." 


70  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

The  old  lady  stopped  her  moaning  and  was 
silent  for  a  moment. 

"But,  Jimmie,"  she  protested,  "Jimmie,  sup- 
posin'  you  became  a  gr-r-e-at  mon,  supposin' 
you  became  a  great  lion,  with  your  pictures  in 
all  the  papers — and  adornin'  the  fences  .  .  . 
then,  Jimmie,  how'll  they  know  you're  me 
son?"  .  .  . 

It  was  at  a  matinee  that  I  first  saw  Will  in 
his  new  part.  It  was  the  first  time  since  our 
marriage  that  I  had  not  heard  his  lines  or 
helped  him  with  his  costumes.  He  had  told 
me  all  about  the  play,  and  I  knew  the  cue  for 
his  first  entrance  almost  as  well  as  he  himself. 
My  heart  thumped  so  hard  and  fast  I  feared 
my  neighbour  would  guess  who  I  was.  His  en- 
trance was  greeted  with  a  burst  of  gloved  ap- 
plause, accompanied  with  such  exclamations  as, 
"There  he  is!"  Isn't  he  a  love!"  .  .  .  "Just 
wait  until  you  see  how  he  can  make  love !"  I 
confess  I  hardly  knew  whether  to  be  proud,  or 
indignant.  The  familiarity  with  which  they 
discussed  him  grated  on  me ;  I  resented  the  pro- 
prietary tone.  Then  I  smiled  at  my  silliness, 
for  I  realized  that  this  very  interest  made  for 
popularity,  the  most  valuable  of  the  actor's  as- 
sets. I  listened  to  the  gush  of  the  matinee 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND  71 

girls,  and  their  discussion  of  the  private  lives 
of  theatrical  people  with  a  good  deal  of  amuse- 
ment. 

Coming  out  of  the  theatre,  I  heard  one 
woman  ask  another  whether  Will  was  married. 
I  wondered  what  difference  that  would  make 
in  his  popularity. 

After  the  matinee  I  went  back  to  Will's 
dressing-room.  Will  had  planned  what  he 
called  a  little  junket.  We  were  to  dine  to- 
gether at  a  restaurant — a  pleasure  we  could 
not  often  afford.  While  Will  washed  up  I 
told  him  the  nice  things  I  had  overheard.  I 
predicted  he  would  become  a  veritable  matinee 
idol — a  term  which  he  scorned.  There  were 
some  letters  lying  on  his  make-up  table.  I 
picked  them  up  idly;  Will  followed  my  action. 

"Read  them,"  he  said.  "You'll  be  amused. 
They  are  my  first  mash-notes."  There  was  so 
much  roguishness  in  his  smile  that  I  laughed 
back  at  him.  Some  of  the  letters  were  inno- 
cent enough,  written  in  girlish  hand,  with  re- 
quests for  autographs  and  autographed  photo- 
graphs. One  or  two  asked  Will's  advice  about 
going  on  the  stage,  and  there  was  one  from  a 
tooth-powder  firm,  wanting  the  right  to  use 
Will's  picture  in  which  his  teeth  showed.  There 


72  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

was  one — a  violet-scented  note  on  fine  linen, 
written  in  the  large  loose  vertical  scrawl  so 
much  affected  by  smart  women — without  signa- 
ture. It  ran  as  follows: 


"If  you  will  pardon  this  somewhat  unconventional 
method  of  making  your  acquaintance,  my  dear  Mr. 
Hartley,  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  have  you  join  me  at 
tea,  after  the  matinee,  at  Sherry's  (other  drinkables 
not  excluded).  I  was  present  at  the  opening  night  of 
your  play,  and  was  quite  carried  away  by  your  splen- 
did acting.  Where  did  you  learn  to  make  love  ?  I 
have  occupied  the  right  hand  proscenium  box  every 
Saturday  matinee  since  the  opening.  Isn't  that  a 
proof  of  my  devotion?  Do  I  flatter  myself  that  I 
have  caught  your  eye  once  or  twice  as  the  curtain 
falls?  I  invariably  dress  in  black  and  wear  garde- 
nias. If  you  are  interested,  you  will  have  no  diffi- 
culty in  identifying  me.  For  family  reasons  I  with- 
hold my  name  for  the  present.  Do  come,  Mr.  Hart- 
ley." 

As  I  folded  the  letter  and  replaced  it  in  its 
cover,  I  recalled  that  Will  had  glanced  towards 
the  right  hand  proscenium  box  several  times. 

"I  think  I'll  put  you  on  a  car  and  send  you 
home,"  began  Will,  but  something  in  his  voice 
belied  his  words,  and  I  made  him  an  impudent 
moue.  "How  do  you  like  being  married  to  a 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  73 

matinee   idol?"   Will   asked,   giving  the  final 
touch  to  his  dress. 

I  did  not  reply ;  I  was  asking  myself  the  same 
question. 


CHAPTER  V 

WILL  made  friends  easily.  Perhaps  it  were 
better  to  use  the  word  "acquaintances."  At 
any  rate  it  was  not  long  until  he  received  more 
invitations  than  he  could  accept.  He  was 
called  on  to  give  his  services  for  charitable  pur- 
poses, but  I  noticed  these  hostesses  never  re- 
ceived him  in  their  homes.  It  must  be  said 
that  Will  rarely  accepted  an  invitation  which 
did  not  include  me,  though  I  often  realized  I 
was  invited  as  a  necessary  evil.  After  supper 
the  guests  invariably  played  poker,  and  I  knew 
nothing  about  cards.  The  late  hours  sapped 
my  strength,  and  my  boy  always  wakened  early 
in  the  morning.  Sometimes  the  suppers  were 
held  at  a  well-known  restaurant,  like  Rector's 
or  Martin's.  I  had  not  the  proper  clothes  for 
such  occasions;  it  was  imperative  that  Will 
dressed  well,  and  I  did  not  want  it  said  that  his 
wife  was  shabby.  The  other  women  wore 
wonderful  gowns  and  much  jewellery. 

After  a  winter's  round  of  these  parties,  I  was 
74 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  751 

able  to  distinguish  one  particular  set  from  an- 
other. There  is  a  smart  set,  a  fast  set  and  a 
loose  set  which,  though  none  of  them  can  be 
said  to  be  strictly  "in  society,"  form  a  kind  of 
brass-band  appendage  or  fringe  to  it  and  differ 
one  from  the  other  only  in  their  gradations — 
or  degradations — of  moral  laxness.  It  is  the 
loose  set  to  which  the  actor  is  drawn,  or  in- 
clines. One  finds  in  this  particular  stratum  the 
artist,  the  journalist,  the  divorcee  and  semi- 
detached woman  whose  name  is  legion.  The 
lady  who  maintains  a  handsome  apartment  and 
entertains  lavishly  is  probably  a  "kept"  woman 
with  an  ambiguous  past.  Occasionally  one 
finds  a  multiple  divorcee  with  money,  playing 
at  patroness  to  some  impecunious  song-writer 
or  handsome  actor  with  more  brawn  than  brain. 
But  the  "kept"  lady  predominates.  She  is 
ubiquitous.  She  dresses  a  la  mode,  she  is  an 
habituee  of  the  smart  restaurants,  an  inveterate 
first-nighter.  Her  "particular  friend"  may  be 
a  married  man  of  the  "my  wife-don't-under- 
stand-me"  brand,  or  he  may  be  one  of  the  "get- 
rich-quick  floaters"  who  joyride  across  the 
financial  horizon  into  oblivion.  It  is  to  this 
set  the  stall-fed  woman  of  the  leisure  class 
turns  to  whet  her  jaded  appetite.  And  a  host- 


76  MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

ess'  Sunday  AT  HOME  is  highly  suggestive 
of  the  "obit"  of  a  Town  Topics.  Individually 
and  collectively  they  are  rotten.  Mistaking 
the  sex-heat  aroused  and  stimulated  by  cock- 
tails and  other  alcoholic  beverages  for  real  love 
and  passion,  they  wallow  in  the  erotic  mire  to 
their  heart's  content.  Nobody  criticizes;  no- 
body cares;  the  faster  the  pace  the  greater  the 
joy. 

It  was  upon  this  subject  that  my  husband  and 
I  encountered  our  first  real  rift.  He  had  com- 
mented rather  flippantly  on  the  moral  tone  of 
a  recent  supper  party.  We  fell  to  discussing 
the  players'  status  in  society.  I  had  observed 
that  with  one  or  two  notable  exceptions  the 
actor  is  not  received  by  "our  best  people."  To 
be  sure  there  are  a  few  cities  outside  of  New 
York  where  quite  respectable  families,  bored 
by  the  drab  routine  of  conventional  society, 
entertain  the  actor  as  a  kind  of  sauce  piquante 
to  their  monotonous  lives.  But  this  is  the  ex- 
ception and  not  the  rule.  Wholly  misinterpret- 
ing my  motive,  Will  defended  his  profession 
with  a  blind  prejudice.  After  that  he  did  not 
ask  me  to  accompany  him  to  the  various  func- 
tions. It  became  quite  a  common  thing  for 
him  to  telephone  me  from  the  Club  that  he 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  77 

would  not  be  home  until  late  that  night.  I  was 
sorry  that  I  had  expressed  myself  so  plainly  to 
Will;  if  only  I  could  make  him  understand  that 
I  wanted  him  to  be  true  to  the  best  that  was  in 
him.  ...  It  hurt  me  to  hear  him  speak  lightly 
of  the  women  with  whom  he  associated,  and 
still  continue  to  go  among  them. 

Miss  Burton  was  now  a  frequent  visitor  at 
our  home.  She  adored  the  boy  and  never 
failed  to  bring  him  a  present  when  she  came. 
She  took  upon  herself  to  lecture  me  for  not 
going  out  with  Will,  declaring  I  was  spoiling 
him,  and  that  I  would  make  him  selfish.  I 
thought  over  what  she  said,  and  resolved  that 
I  would  go  with  Will  when  next  he  asked  me. 
Also  I  began  to  formulate  a  little  circle  of  my 
own.  There  was  a  sculptor  to  whom  I  was 
particularly  attracted.  He  was  a  Western 
product,  and  was  preparing  to  go  abroad  to 
study.  I  had  always  had  a  fondness  for  sculp- 
ture, and  during  my  enforced  retirement  I 
amused  myself  at  moulding  with  clay.  A 
baby's  hand  I  had  made  attracted  his  attention 
one  day  he  had  called  on  Will.  He  advised 
me  to  continue  my  efforts.  Miss  Burton  sent 
me  a  wonderful  outfit  and  I  took  up  my  work 
of  sculpturing  in  earnest.  My  sculptor  friend 


78  MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

brought  other  friends  with  him,  and  it  became 
a  regular  thing  for  me  to  receive  my  friends 
on  Sunday  afternoon.  I  saw  that  Will  en- 
joyed my  little  parties,  though  they  were  sim- 
ple and  I  made  no  pretensions. 

One  day — it  was  at  Christmas  time — Miss 
Burton  sent  me  a  beautiful  gown;  with  the 
package  came  a  characteristic  note :  she  begged 
me  to  accept  the  gown  and  not  to  feel  hurt, 
that  she  was  dead  broke  and  could  not  afford 
to  make  me  a  "decent"  Christmas  present.  The 
gown,  she  said,  had  been  spoiled  by  the  dress- 
maker, who  had  made  it  much  too  tight,  and  it 
would  make  her  happy  if  I  would  accept  it  with 
her  love.  .  .  . 

It  was  so  pretty — all  creamy  white  and 
fluffy,  and  there  were  little  pink  flowers  scat- 
tered over  the  net.  I  put  it  on  ...  and,  as  I 
looked  at  myself  in  the  mirror,  I  felt  quite 
pleased  with  the  reflection.  White  was  always 
becoming  to  me.  ...  I  did  not  tell  Will  about 
my  present,  but  the  next  time  he  casually  men- 
tioned an  invitation  to  dinner  I  accepted  with 
an  alacrity  which  surprised  him. 

When  Sunday  came,  I  dressed  with  the  ex- 
citement of  a  conspirator,  and  when  Will 
called  me  to  help  him  with  his  tic  I  walked 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND  79 

into  his  room  with  an  air  of  unconcern  worthy 
of  a  star.  Will  was  delighted  with  my  appear- 
ance. 

When  we  entered  the  house  of  our  hostess  I 
no  longer  felt  the  desire  to  hide  myself;  in- 
stead, I  felt  quite  mistress  of  myself.  It's 
wonderful  what  a  difference  clothes  will  make 
in  one's  feelings.  Miss  Burton  told  me  once 
that,  whenever  she  was  down  on  her  luck  and 
felt  depressed,  she  forthwith  went  on  a  sarto- 
rial debauch.  She  bought  everything  in  sight. 
Her  new  clothes  re-established  her  self-respect, 
and  somehow,  some  way,  a  good  engagement 
came  along  and  helped  her  to  pay  for  her 
prodigality. 

We  were  a  little  late  in  arriving,  and  when 
I  came  down  from  the  bedroom,  where  I  had 
left  my  wrap,  the  second  round  of  cocktails 
was  being  passed.  Will  was  standing  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs  talking  with  his  hostess.  A 
large  nude  figure  carrying  softly  shaded  lights 
decorated  the  newel-post,  and  screened  me  from 
view  of  the  woman  who  was  talking  to  Will. 

"You  handsome  dog!"  I  heard  her  say. 
"What  have  you  been  doing  to  Alice?  She's 
gone  clean  off  her  head — threatens  to  leave 
her  husband,  and  is  drinking  like  a  fish!" 


8o  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

"I  haven't  done  anything,"  Will  began,  but 
at  that  moment  our  hostess  saw  me  and  nudged 
Will,  who  joined  me  and  we  entered  the  draw- 
ing-room. 

I  felt  Will's  questioning  eyes  on  my  face,  but 
I  did  not  look  at  him ;  instead,  I  gave  my  hand 
rather  impulsively  to  my  sculptor  friend  who 
was  standing  alone,  and  I  did  not  notice  the 
returning  pressure  until  my  wedding  ring  cut 
into  the  flesh,  and  made  me  wince.  I  was  won- 
dering who  "Alice"  could  be  and  what  Will 
had  to  do  with  her.  Our  hostess's  "friend" 
was  present.  He  was  a  middle-aged  man  with 
a  ruddy  complexion,  iron  gray  hair  and  a 
closely  cropped  moustache.  I  had  once  seen 
him  at  the  Horse  Show  in  one  of  the  boxes, 
and  he  had  been  pointed  out  to  me  as  a  promi- 
nent railroad  man.  He  greeted  Will  noisily. 

"Hello,  Hartley,"  he  yelled,  "you're  late  on 
your  cue.  I  suppose  you  wanted  to  make  an 
effective  entrance!" 

At  the  table  I  sat  next  to  the  sculptor;  on  my 
other  hand  was  a  dentist  who  had  leaped  into 
fame  by  having  been  expelled  from  a  certain 
European  country  where  he  had  set  up  a  suc- 
cessful practice.  A  liaison  with  the  wife  of  a 
man  close  to  the  throne  had  led  to  his  down- 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND  81 

fall,  and  he  had  returned  to  his  native  land  to 
be  received  with  open  arms  by  the  set  in  which 
we  were  now  travelling.  He  had  a  face  such 
as  I  imagined  Moliere  conceived  for  his  Tar- 
tuffe;  his  voice  was  caressing  and  made  me 
sleepy.  Opposite  me  sat  a  well-known  star. 
He  was  famous  for  his  magnetism.  Although 
I  could  not  discern  it,  there  must  have  existed 
something  of  the  sort,  for  every  leading  woman 
who  engaged  with  him,  sooner  or  later,  suc- 
cumbed to  his  charm.  I  myself  knew  of  one 
girl  whose  life  was  almost  ruined  when  he 
took  up  with  another  woman  who  had  joined 
his  Company  to  play  a  special  engagement. 
This  girl  was  one  of  the  prettiest  I  ever  saw; 
she  was  "chaperoned"  by  a  complaisant 
mother.  This  irresistible  gentleman  was  mar- 
ried, but  his  wife  refused  to  live  with  him  and 
made  her  home  abroad.  For  the  sake  of  the 
children  she  refused  to  divorce  him. 

A  comic  opera  singer  sat  beside  the  hostess. 
The  dentist,  assuming  that  I  knew  the  situation, 
asked  me,  sotto  voce,  how  long  I  thought  it 
would  be  before  "papa  took  a  tumble  to  him- 
self." When  I  confessed  my  inability  to  fol- 
low him,  he  proceeded  to  enlighten  me.  The 
hostess  was  infatuated  with  the  singer,  who  was 


32  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

as  poor  as  Job's  turkey,  and  while  her  pro- 
tector was  absent — (he  was  married  and  had 
several  grown  children) — the  lady  consoled 
herself  with  song.  This  easy,  matter-of-fact 
way  in  which  these  topics  were  discussed,  the 
utter  lack  of  restraint  between  the  sexes,  no 
longer  shocked  me.  I  was  on  the  point  of  ask- 
ing my  purveyor  of  illicit  news  whether  he 
could  tell  me  who  Alice  was;  instead,  I  turned 
to  the  bored  man  at  my  right,  and  by  degrees 
I  got  him  to  tell  me  of  his  ambitions,  his  work 
and  his  ideas  of  life.  I  found  we  had  much 
in  common. 

While  we  were  talking,  there  was  a  noisy 
argument  going  on  at  the  other  end  of  the 
table. 

"I  wouldn't  stand  it  for  one  minute  I"  rang 
out  the  voice  of  our  hostess,  and  I  saw  her 
shoot  a  meaning  glance  at  the  singer. 

"Ask  an  actor's  wife !  Ask  Mrs.  Hartley!" 
bellowed  the  host.  "Mrs.  Hartley?" 

"Yes?"  I  responded,  not  knowing  the  sub- 
ject of  conversation. 

"Pardon  me  for  interrupting  so  interesting 
a  conversation,  won't  you,  Calhoun,"  he  said, 
addressing  my  sculptor  friend  with  exaggerated 
courtesy.  "I'll  give  her  back  to  you  in  a  min- 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND  83 

ute.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Hartley,  the  ladies  want  to 
know  how  it  feels  to  watch  your  husband  make 
love  to  another  woman?" 

I  caught  Will's  eye.  At  another  time  I 
should  have  been  embarrassed.  Tonight, 
however,  I  felt  a  strange  self-control. 

"Oh  dear,  what  an  old  chestnut!"  I  answered 
flippantly.  "I  believe  that's  the  nine  hundred 
and  ninety-ninth  time  I've  answered  that  ques- 
tion this  season."  I  noticed  that  my  voice  took 
on  a  bored  tone. 

"Well,  tell  us!"  urged  mine  host. 

"To  tell  the  truth,"  I  began,  "I  never  give 
it  a  thought." 

Will's  eyes  twinkled;  he  was  seated  at  the 
far  end  of  the  table  between  two  stall-feds. 

"It's  a  part  of  the  business,"  I  continued, 
"just  as  dictating  to  his  typewriter  is  a  part  of 
the  routine  of  a  business  man.  Does  every 
wife  suspect  her  husband's  stenographer?" 

"Yes!  yes!"  came  the  chorus  from  the  curvi- 
linear gentlemen  at  the  other  end  of  the  table. 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders.  "Very  well,  then, 
it  seems  to  me,  since  you  gentlemen  won't  be- 
have, that  it  is  up  to  the  women  to  see  that  you 
do !"  I  sat  down.  I  felt  ashamed  of  my  vul- 
garity. 


84  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

Our  host  suggested  a  toast  and  scrambled  to 
his  feet.  "Here's  to  our  wives  and  sweet- 
hearts— may  they  never  meet !" 

There  was  more  laughter.  The  dentist 
murmured  something  about  moss-grown  jokes, 
and  the  hostess  asked  why  husbands  and  lovers 
were  excluded.  I  felt  my  mouth  drawing 
down  at  the  corners,  and  I  buried  my  lips  in 
the  American  Beauty  rose  the  sculptor  had  pur- 
loined from  the  centre-piece. 

It  was  probably  the  frequent  replenishing  of 
the  wine  glasses  which  led  the  doctor-dentist 
to  level  all  his  batteries  of  fascination  upon  me. 
He  moved  nearer  and  closer,  until  even  the 
hostess  noticed  his  efforts ;  she  thought  it  funny. 
Finally,  he  slipped  his  hand  beneath  the  table 
and  let  it  rest  upon  my  knee.  I  arose  and 
asked  the  sculptor  to  exchange  seats  with  me. 
I  think  he  understood,  for  as  I  passed  him  he 
said  to  me  in  a  low,  intense  tone,  "Is  that  beast 
annoying  you?"  I  did  not  answer.  In  my 
confusion  I  upset  a  glass  of  wine,  and  the  wine- 
agent  across  the  table  told  me  he  was  sorry  I 
didn't  like  his  wine. 

As  the  dinner  progressed  some  spicy  stories 
were  exchanged.  The  time  we  lingered  at  the 
table  seemed  interminable.  Mr.  Calhoun  told 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  85 

me  I  should  take  a  drink  of  brandy,  for  I  was 
growing  quite  pale.  He  could  not,  of  course, 
realize  that  at  that  moment  I  had  suddenly  no- 
ticed that  Will's  companion  was  dressed  all  in 
black  and  wore  gardenias.  A  moment  later 
the  hostess  had  called  her  "Alice."  ...  She 
leered  at  Will  with  wine-shot  eyes,  her  breath 
coming  in  quick,  short  gasps,  and  I  noticed  that 
his  right  and  her  left  hand  were  under  the 
table.  .  .  . 

As  we  left  the  table  I  had  asked  Mr.  Cal- 
houn  what  time  it  was.  When  he  told  me  it 
was  after  eleven  I  ran  quickly  up  the  stairs  to 
the  room  where  I  had  seen  a  telephone.  It 
was  my  habit  to  awaken  my  boy  at  half-after 
nine  every  night  to  give  him  nourishment.  He 
was  put  to  bed  at  five  o'clock,  and  the  period 
between  that  and  morning  was  too  long  to  go 
without  food.  I  wanted  to  ask  my  maid 
whether  she  had  remembered  my  instructions. 
The  telephone  was  in  a  kind  of  closet  off  the 
hostess's  bedroom;  beyond  the  bedroom  was 
her  boudoir,  reached  by  a  door  from  the  cor- 
ridor. I  had  finished  with  my  message,  and 
was  about  to  go  downstairs,  where  the  singing 
had  begun,  when  I  heard  someone  enter  the 
boudoir  beyond.  I  stopped  and  drew  back, 


86  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

why,  I  do  not  know.  A  moment  later  there 
were  footsteps  on  the  stairs,  and  Will  entered 
the  room.  He  came  quickly  and  began  speak- 
ing at  once. 

"My  dear  Alice,"  he  said,  "this  thing  can't 
go  on.  You  are  making  a  fool  of  me  and  of 
yourself.  The  first  thing  you  know  your  hus- 
band will  get  on  to  it  and  there  will  be  the 
devil  to  pay!" 

"That's  right!  Make  it  harder  for  me," 
the  woman  answered.  "Why  do  you  always 
bring  my  husband  into  the  conversation?  You 
know  how  it  is  between  us.  We  haven't  lived 
as  man  and  wife  for  years.  He's  never  under- 
stood me  and  I  can't  go  on  with  him  any 
longer.  I  won't — that's  all!" 

There  was  a  pause  before  Will  spoke 
again. 

"Come  on,  don't  go  on  like  that;  everybody 
will  know  what's  happened.  You'll  spoil  your 
eyes." 

Another  pause.  I  think  these  silences  were 
the  hardest  to  bear.  .  .  . 

"You  had  no  right  to  let  it  go  this  far  if  you 
didn't  care,"  the  woman  went  on  resentfully. 

"This  far?  How  do  you  mean?  There 
has  been  nothing  that  you  need  be  ashamed  of 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND  87 

lothing  that  you  couldn't  tell  your  husband 
if  it  came  right  down  to  it,"  answered  Will. 

The  woman  laughed  angrily.  "Is  that  so? 
I  suppose  you  count  a  few  motor  rides  and  a 
few  suppers  on  the  side  nothing.  I  suppose 
you  wouldn't  mind  telling  your  wife  that  you 
had  held  me  in  your  arms  and  kissed  my  eyes 
and  my  hair.  .  .  ." 

"Good  Heavens!  neither  of  us  meant  any- 
thing wrong !  We  were  just  carried  away  for 
a  few  minutes — you're  a  fascinating  devil — 
and  the  wine  helped  some.  .  .  .  Now,  don't 
don't  do  that,  don't  do  any  of  that  foolish 
business  with  me.  .  .  ." 

What  was  she  doing,  I  wondered?  Did  she 
intend  to  kill  him  or  kill  herself?  I  almost 
started  to  Will's  rescue,  then — she  laughed. 

"Powder  your  nose  and  let's  go  down. 
Somebody  will  notice  our  absence." 

Evidently  she  obeyed,  for  there  was  another 
pause. 

"You  needn't  worry  about  your  wife,"  she 
said.  "The  giant  from  the  West  is  keeping 
her  busy.  Better  keep  your  eye  on  him." 

Will  did  not  reply.  My  eardrums  seemed 
on  the  point  of  bursting  from  the  surging  of  the 
blood  to  my  head. 


88  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

They  came  out  into  the  corridor.  At  the 
head  of  the  steps  she  stopped. 

"I  suppose  it  amuses  you  to  make  women 
love  you,"  she  said. 

"My  dear  woman,  you  don't  love  me;  I 
don't  flatter  myself  to  that  extent." 

She  laughed  sneeringly. 

Would  they  never  go  ? 

"Kiss  me  good-night  and  good-bye,"  she  half 
whispered. 

"This  is  the  last  one,"  he  answered,  "the 
last,  remember." 

There  was  a  stifled  cry  as  she  clung  to  him, 
and  I  saw  Will  release  himself  and  run  down 
the  steps.  A  few  minutes  later  she  followed. 
I  found  my  way  down  the  servants'  stairs  and 
entered  the  dining-room  from  the  butler's  pan- 
try. When  Will  came  to  look  for  me  I  was 
drinking  brandy  frappee  with  the  wine  mer- 
chant. .  .  .  That  night  I  slept  on  a  couch  be- 
side my  boy's  crib. 


CHAPTER  VI 

AFTER  that  memorable  dinner  party  things 
were  never  quite  the  same  between  Will  and 
me.  I  am  sure,  however,  that  Will  was  un- 
conscious of  the  fact.  He  went  about  as 
usual.  At  this  juncture  Boy  came  down  with 
scarlet-fever.  The  enforced  quarantine  acted 
as  a  bar  to  any  intimacy  between  my  husband 
and  me.  I  welcomed  the  isolation.  My  feel- 
ings had  not  yet  recovered  from  the  bruise  I 
had  received.  How  many  times  I  had  re-lived 
the  scene  to  which  I  had  been  an  unwilling 
eavesdropper!  I  blamed  myself  for  not  at 
once  having  made  my  presence  known.  I  ex- 
cused myself  on  the  ground  that  to  have  done 
so  would  have  placed  Will  in  a  ridiculous  and 
embarrassing  situation.  For  some  inexplicable 
reason  the  idea  of  embarrassing  my  husband 
was  repugnant  to  me.  My  resentment  was 
concentrated  against  the  woman.  I  felt  sure 
she  was  to  blame.  I  invented  all  kinds  of  ex- 
cuses for  Will  and  at  the  same  time  I  recog- 


90  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

nizcd  that  they  were  pure  inventions.  I  could 
not  bring  myself  to  kiss  my  husband — at  least, 
not  for  a  long,  long  time.  His  arms  no  longer 
connoted  a  haven.  How  utterly  wretched  I 
was — how  lonely  and  heart-hungry!  Only  a 
fierce  struggle  with  my  self-respect  kept  me 
from  throwing  myself  into  my  husband's  arms 
and  crying  out  my  hurt  against  his  breast. 

After  Boy  had  recovered,  Will  one  day  re- 
marked that  I  was  looking  tired.  He  said  I 
was  stopping  indoors  too  closely — would  I  not 
accompany  him  to  a  little  ...  I  tingled  all 
over  my  body.  I  dared  not  trust  myself  to 
look  at  him.  Instead  I  forced  a  smile  and 
shook  my  head  in  negation. 

"I  reckon  you  don't  like  the  bunch,"  he 
quizzed. 

"I  fear  Fm  not  even  a  little  bit  of  a  sport," 
I  answered. 

He  looked  at  me  out  of  the  corner  of  his 
eye.  The  glance  was  characteristic  of  Will. 
Often  I  had  seen  this  same  expression  when 
some  one  had  recognized  him  on  the  street  or 
in  a  restaurant.  It  was  a  curious  blend  of 
boyish  self-consciousness  and  exaggerated  un- 
concern. 

With  the  coming  of  summer  began  the  an- 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND  91 

nual  hunt  for  an  engagement.  A  walk  along 
that  part  of  Broadway  known  as  the  Rialto 
during  the  early  months  of  the  heated  term 
leaves  the  impression  that  there  has  been  a 
lock-out  of  the  whole  theatrical  profession. 
Actors  block  the  corners  and  hem  the  side- 
walks. The  supply  far  exceeds  the  demand. 
Year  after  year  they  make  the  weary  rounds 
of  the  agencies.  Season  follows  season  with 
but  a  few  weeks*  employment  for  many  of 
them.  One  wonders  that  the  impermanency  of 
his  profession  does  not  drive  the  actor  to  other 
vocations — perhaps  "trades"  were  the  better 
word,  since  the  rank  and  file  are  better  adapted 
to  plumbing  than  to  acting.  The  microbe 
which  infects  the  actor  is  as  deadly  in  its  effect 
as  the  Tsi-tsi  fly.  It  produces  an  exaggerated 
€go  from  which  the  victim  never  recovers.  The 
only  palliative  is  the  lime-light.  Retirement 
from  the  stage  is  never  permanent.  Farewell 
tours  of  prominent  players,  like  the  brook,  go 
on  forever.  It  is  the  spirit  of  make-believe 
with  which  the  actor  is  saturated  which  leads 
him  to  make  a  front  even  to  his  confreres. 
"Signed  for  next  season?"  one  overhears,  edg- 
ing one's  way  through  the  crowd. 

"No,  not  yet — I've  had  several  good  offers, 


9*  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

but  not  just  what  I  want.  I'm  in  no  hurry," 
and  he  twirls  his  cane  with  a  nonchalant  air, 
though  he  may  not  have  the  price  of  next 
week's  board-bill.  And  so  it  goes,  ad  infini- 
tum.  His  is  the  kingdom  of  bluff. 

Will  was  one  of  the  fortunates.  After  sev- 
eral weeks  of  haggling  over  salary,  he  was  en- 
gaged by  "America's  foremost  producer."  The 
actor  of  established  position — "established"  be- 
ing a  mere  figure  of  speech,  since  at  best  the 
actor's  position  is  an  aleatory  one — those  of 
prominence  usually  demand  to  read  the  play 
before  signing  a  contract.  In  this  instance 
Will  waived  this  privilege.  Absolute  secrecy 
was  maintained  as  to  the  character  of  the  play. 
The  reason  for  this  lay  in  the  fact  that  the 
manager  was  at  war  with  the  Theatrical'  Syndi- 
cate. His  grievances  he  had  made  known  to 
the  public.  As  a  lone,  solitary  Saint  George 
of  tart,  fighting  the  monster  dragon,  commer- 
cialism, he  made  a  "play"  for  the  public's  sym- 
pathy— and  won  it. 

The  momentous  question  of  employment  dis- 
posed of,  we  started  for  our  summer  holiday. 
It  was  Will's  first  idea  to  go  to  a  village  on 
Nantucket  Island.  Here  a  group  of  more  or 
less  successful  actor- folk  had  established  a  sum- 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND  93 

mer  colony.  Some  of  them  owned  comfort- 
able bungalows  or  were  in  the  throes  of  buying 
them.  After  maturer  deliberation  Will  con- 
cluded he  wanted  a  change  of  "atmosphere." 
In  other  words  he  wanted  to  get  away  from 
"shop."  A  residential  park  in  the  Catskills 
was  finally  decided  upon.  The  cottagers  were 
for  the  most  part  staid  Brooklyn  families  and 
Will  felt  in  this  environment  he  was  reasonably 
sure  of  privacy.  The  delusion  was  a  short- 
lived one.  As  we  left  the  train  and  made  our 
way  to  the  'bus  which  was  to  convey  us  to  the 
Park  I  heard  a  whisper  and  titter  from  a  bevy 
of  pretty  girls  who  had  come  to  the  railway 
station  to  watch  the  new  arrivals.  "There's 
Mr.  Blank,  the  actor!"  and  Will  understood 
that  he  was  "discovered."  Some  of  the  girls 
climbed  into  the  'bus,  others  followed  on  foot. 
All  giggled  and  made  significant  remarks.  At 
the  Inn  it  was  immediately  noised  about  that 
an  actor  was  in  "our  midst."  We  became  the 
cynosure  of  all  eyes.  Curious  maiden  ladies 
looked  us  over — at  a  respectful  distance.  Our 
most  insignificant  movements  were  under  ob- 
servation. Now,  it  is  one  thing  to  be  stared 
at  on  the  stage;  quite  another  to  have  the 
minutest  detail  of  one's  private  life  under  con- 


94  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

stant  surveillance.  Will,  who  had  planned  to 
live  the  simple  life,  which  he  had  construed 
for  himself  as  going  unshaved  for  days  at  a 
time,  wearing  baggy  trousers  and  flannel  shirts 
all  day  and  dining  in  that  garb  if  it  so  pleased 
him,  now  found  himself  donning  white  ducks 
(the  salvage  of  a  former  season's  wardrobe), 
playing  tennis,  bridge,  or  lounging  about  the 
piazza  answering  endless  inane  questions  con- 
cerning the  stage  and  its  people.  If  we  went 
for  a  walk  we  were  soon  overtaken;  if  we 
planned  a  quiet  day  in  the  woods  there  was  ar- 
ranged an  impromptu  picnic-party  to  accom- 
pany us.  To  be  sure  the  attention  thrust  upon 
us  was  of  kindly  intent,  though  Will  declared 
the  pleasure  was  theirs  and  more  or  less  sel- 
fishly bestowed.  An  actor  and  his  family  at 
close  range  is  a  novelty  apparently  as  much 
coveted  as  a  man  at  a  seaside  after  the  week- 
end hejira  back  to  town. 

One  week  of  the  cuisine  at  the  Inn  drove 
Will  to  dyspepsia  tablets.  Instead  of  fresh 
vegetables,  home-grown  fowl  and  the  other 
concomitants  of  the  country-board  illusions,  we 
were  served  with  such  delicacies  as  creamed 
cod-fish,  canned  salmon  and  johnny  cake.  I 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  housekeeping 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  95 

and  servant  problems  had  driven  the  Brook- 
lynites  to  a  state  of  submission  where  even  the 
fare  provided  by  the  Inn  was  better  than  Brid- 
get's dictation. 

The  rooms  of  the  caravansary  were  verita- 
ble cockle-shells.  The  partitions  were  so  thin 
that  we  carried  on  all  conversation  in  subdued 
whispers.  We  wished  that  other  guests  would 
emulate  our  example,  alas  and  alack!  Up  with 
the  lark  and  early  morning  sunbursts  were  not 
in  Will's  curriculum.  He  said  he  did  not  ob- 
ject to  a  sunrise  if  he  could  sit  up  all  night 
with  convivial  friends  to  await  it.  And,  when 
a  man  is  in  the  habit  of  lying  abed  till  noon, 
it  is  difficult  to  change  his  regime.  He  soon 
developed  nerves.  One  morning,  after  futile 
attempts  to  sleep,  Will  dragged  himself  into 
his  clothes  and  disappeared.  When  finally  he 
returned  he  had  the  roguish  face  of  a  boy  who 
had  been  stealing  little  red  apples.  He 
had  found  a  farmhouse  and  after  some 
"dickering"  on  both  sides  he  had  rented  house, 
farm  and  all  for  the  remainder  of  the  sea- 
son. 

"Just  think,  girlie,"  he  enthused,  "what  a 
circus  it  will  be!  There's  a  garden  with  all 
kinds  of  vegetables,  there's  a  cow,  bushels  of 


96  MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

chickens,  an  old  nag,  a  dog,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  pigs  and " 

"Who,"  I  gasped,  "who  is  going  to  care  for 
this  menagerie?" 

"We  are — you  and  me.  Besides  I  need  the 
exercise.  I  want  to  take  off  a  few  pounds  of 
this  embonpoint  or  I'll  lose  my  'figger.'  Of 
course  there's  a  hired  man  who'll  come  in  to 
do  the  milking  and  the  heavy  work,  and  his 
sister  will  cook  and  'tidy  up*  for  us.  It'll  be 
great!"  He  stopped  long  enough  to  throw 
out  his  chest,  inhale  deeply  and  to  exhale 
noisily  while  he  pounded  his  lungs — a  little 
trick  he  had  of  expressing  a  sense  of  well-being. 
"Fresh  vegetables,  fresh  eggs  and  the  cow — 
think  what  the  cow  will  do  for  the  kiddie  !  You 
never  saw  me  work,  did  you? — man  with  the 
hoe  business,  I  mean.  I  used  to  love  that  kind 
of  thing  when  I  went  home  to  visit  the  old 
folks  in  the  summer.  Come  along,  girlie, 
let's  get  things  together.  The  coach  and  four 
will  be  here  soon." 

He  swung  Boy  over  his  shoulder  and  carried 
him  pick-a-back  to  our  room.  While  we 
packed  he  told  me  the  details  of  his  "find." 
The  farm  belonged  to  an  old  man  and  his  wife, 
whose  children — three  sons — had  yielded  to 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  97 

the  call  of  the  city.  Bit  by  bit  the  lonely  old 
couple  had  sold  the  land,  not  being  able  to 
work  it  themselves  and  unsuccessful  in  their  at- 
tempts to  induce  the  children  to  return  to  their 
heritage.  For  a  long  time  they  had  "han- 
kered" to  visit  the  boys  in  Brooklyn,  but 
money  was  scarce  and  the  little  farm  with  the 
live  stock  could  not  be  left  uncared  for.  The 
old  man  had  advertised  the  homestead  for  rent, 
furnished.  "The  few  who  came  to  see  had 
one  excuse  or  another  for  not  wanting  it,"  the 
old  man  had  told  Will.  "Most  of  'em  wanted 
a  bath  and  runnin'  water  and  they  shied  at  the 
oil  lamps." 

"They  evidently  wanted  the  simple  life  with 
all  modern  appliances,"  Will  continued. 
"After  talking  it  over  with  Ma  whilst  I  waited 
on  the  porch  drinking  buttermilk,  Pa  returned 
and  asked  if  I  meant  business.  I  assured  him 
I  did  and  proved  it  by  offering  to  pay  the  sum- 
mer's rent  in  advance." 

I  caught  my  breath.  Mental  arithmetic 
failed  me.  Will  had  told  me  before  leaving 
New  York  that  we  were  "playing  pretty  close 
to  the  cushion,"  and  I  knew  what  that  meant. 
If  Will  noticed  my  perturbation  he  evinced  no 
sign,  but  went  on  in  the  same  enthusiastic  vein. 


98  MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

"Pa  and  Ma  talked  it  over  again,  'If  Ma  ain't 
lost  her  taste  for  visiting  Brooklyn/ — Ma 
hadn't,  but  she  wanted  a  week  to  get  ready. 
Pa  said  he  could  pack  all  he  wanted  in  a  paper 
bag.  I  said  I  must  have  the  place  at  once  or 
not  at  all — and — here  we  are."  I  was  not  sur- 
prised at  our  sudden  change  of  base.  Will 
always  acted  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment. 

When  Will  went  down  to  pay  our  hotel  bill 
it  was  lunch-time.  Nearly  all  the  cottagers  in 
the  Park  had  assembled.  Much  regret  was 
expressed  at  our  desertion  of  the  Inn.  (I 
quite  understood  that  "our"  was  a  mere  form 
of  courtesy,  inasmuch  as  I  was  looked  upon  as 
only  an  appendage  hitched  to  a  star.)  Will 
laid  our  desertion  to  the  Boy.  "He  needs  a 
cow,"  he  explained  blandly  to  a  group  of  ad- 
mirers. "A  child  of  his  age  needs  one  brand 
of  milk.  One  can't  be  too  careful  in  hot 
weather,  you  know,"  and  Will's  whole  bearing 
portrayed  paternal  solicitude.  The  farm 
wagon  arrived  opportunely.  Will  winked  at 
me.  He  had  told  me  that  he  was  "side-step- 
ping" the  lunch  of  dried  lima  beans  and 
creamed  cod-fish.  "I  wanted  to  do  it  grace- 
fully, of  course.  They  are  all  nice  people  and 
it's  good  business.  That's  the  kind  of  thing 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND  99 

that  gives  an  actor  his  following;  just  the  same 
I'm  glad  to  get  away  and  relax.  This  being 
always  on  parade — !  They  simply  won't  con- 
cede an  actor  any  privacy.  They  won't  let 
you  be  natural.  They  expect  you  to  act  'on' 
and  'off.'  " 

It  was  a  long  and  bumpy  drive  to  the  farm. 
We  could  have  walked  it  in  a  third  of  the  time 
by  cutting  'cross  country.  The  poor  old  horse 
driven  by  Aaih,  the  farm  hand,  looked  moth- 
eaten  and  worn.  It  hurt  my  conscience  to  add 
to  his  burden,  so  Will  and  I  climbed  down  and 
walked  the  rest  of  the  way.  Will,  carrying 
Boy  first  on  his  shoulder  and  then  on  his  back, 
reminded  me  of  pictures  I  had  seen  of  early 
settlers  making  their  way  through  the  wilds  in 
search  of  a  home.  Once  in  every  little  while 
Will  would  burst  forth  in  a  lusty  halloa  which 
made  the  welkin  ring.  "Halloa"  came  back 
from  the  echoing  hills.  Even  Boy  saluted  the 
great  god  Pan.  There  was  an  exhilaration  in 
the  air  which  made  one  glad  to  be  alive. 

It  was  a  noisy  trio  which  swung  into  the  lane 
leading  to  the  farm  house.  Ma  was  on  the 
front  porch  awaiting  us.  She  made  a  quaint 
picture  in  her  rusty  black  alpaca  with  her  ging- 
ham apron  half  turned  back  under  her  arm.  At 


ioo         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

her  neck  there  was  an  old  daguerreotype  set 
in  a  brooch — probably  a  likeness  of  a  child 
she  had  lost.  The  lack-lustre  eyes  were  kindly, 
almost  pensively  so,  and  the  red  spots  in  her 
cheeks  indicated  the  excitement  under  which 
she  laboured.  While  we  sprawled  on  the 
porch  she  bustled  about  for  buttermilk.  Boy 
had  taken  a  shine  to  Aaih,  and  refused  to 
leave  him  for  the  "one  brand  of  milk,"  the 
virtues  of  which  Will  had  expounded  to  the 
lady  cottagers.  Pa  called  out  a  friendly  greet- 
ing from  the  kitchen  where  he  was  "poking  up 
the  fire"  in  response  to  orders  from  his  wife. 
The  odour  of  cooking  things  whetted  our  al- 
ready keen  appetites.  "I  had  Pa  kill  a 
chicken  at  the  last  minute,"  the  dear  old  lady- 
explained,  "for  everybody  who  comes  to  the 
country  hankers  for  fried  chicken."  I  shot  a 
glance  at  Will.  Will  was  "a  nice  feeder"  and 
I  devoutly  hoped  his  epicurean  tastes  would 
not  balk  at  a  freshly-killed  fowl.  It  would  be 
a  sin  not  to  appreciate  the  old  lady's  kindliness. 
Mentally  I  resolved  to  eat  every  helping  if  it 
killed  me. 

I  fear  there  was  poor  picking  for  Aaih  after 
we  left  the  table.  I  helped  Ma  with  the 
dishes  and  after  they  were  cleared  away  she 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          101 

showed  me  the  run  of  the  house.  Later  we 
joined  the  men  folks  out  of  doors  and  made  a 
tour  of  the  farm.  There  was  something  pa- 
thetic in  the  way  they  asked  us  to  take  good 
care  of  Snyder,  whose  mixed  breed  reminded 
one  of  the  much  advertised  pickles.  Old  Ben, 
we  were  told,  was  not  fast  but  he  was  trust- 
worthy even  in  the  face  of  automobiles.  Good 
laying  hens  were  pointed  out,  but  I  could  never 
remember  one  from  the  other.  We  made  the 
acquaintance  of  Bossy  and  were  warned  that 
the  other  cow  with  a  calf  was  not  so  friendly. 
We  talked  so  long  that  at  the  last  moment  Ma 
got  flustered.  She  came  very  near  forgetting 
the  home-made  jelly  she  was  taking  to  her 
niece  at  Kingston  where  they  were  to  stay  the 
night,  going  on  to  New  York  on  the  morrow. 
When  at  last  they  drove  away  to  take  the 
train,  we  followed  the  buggy  to  the  end  of  the 
lane,  then  watched  them  out  of  sight  with  much 
waving  of  hands  and  repeated  good-byes.  The 
sun  was  dropping  behind  the  peaks.  Across 
the  valley  spiral  coils  of  smoke  showed  gray 
against  the  blue-green  hills.  How  calm,  how 
serene  it  was!  Neither  spoke.  Will  was 
leaning  against  the  snake-rail  fence,  thought- 
fully ruminating.  Presently  he  fell  to  whis- 


102          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

tling  softly.  I  smiled.  "Give  my  regards  to 
Broadway,  remember  me  to  Herald  Square" 
was  ludicrously  out  of  joint  with  our  surround- 
ings. Will  divined  my  thoughts  and  smiled 
quizzically  at  me  over  his  shoulder.  "It's  a 
long  way  from  Broadway,  eh,  girlie?" 

"Not  nearly  long  enough!"  I  responded. 
And  I  was  right.  If,  upon  leaving  the  Inn  we 
had  deluded  ourselves  with  the  idea  of  retiring 
from  the  public  eye,  we  soon  discovered  our 
mistake.  Our  retreat  was  unearthed;  our  pri- 
vacy intruded  upon.  At  inopportune  moments 
passers-by  would  appear  ostensibly  to  inquire 
their  way,  obviously  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the 
actor  "at  play."  It  came  to  be  an  annoyance, 
especially  after  Will  was  caught  in  the  act  of 
clearing  out  a  duck  pond  or  helping  Aaih  to 
whitewash  a  chicken-house.  When  Will  in- 
dulged in  manual  labour  he  relieved  himself  of 
all  superfluous  clothing.  When  a  hero  does 
this  sort  of  thing  on  the  stage  he  manages 
somehow  to  look  pretty.  But  a  matinee  idol 
with  streaks  of  whitewash  laid  across  his 
sweating  brow,  sundry  snaggs  in  disreputable 
trousers,  a  handkerchief  around  his  neck  with 
utter  disregard  of  artistic  effect,  is  a  treat  re- 
served for  the  bosom  of  his  immediate  family 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          103 

only.  So,  after  repeated  offences,  whilom  vis- 
itors were  warned  off  by  the  threatening  ad- 
monition— in  more  or  less  uneven  lettering — 

"PRIVATE  PROPERTY— NO  ADMITTANCE." 

Experience  Dorset  was  Aaih's  sister.  She 
might  have  been  his  twin,  so  alike  were  they. 
The  only  apparent  difference  was  that  plain- 
ness in  a  man  becomes  homeliness  in  a  woman. 
In  so  far  as  we  were  able  to  discover,  Experi- 
ence belied  her  name.  True,  she  made  deli- 
cious bread  and  crullers,  and  one  never  felt 
her  apple  dumplings  after  forty-eight  hours, 
but,  other  than  these,  Experience's  experience 
was  as  drab  as  her  complexion.  She  was  slow 
of  speech — and  exhaustive.  Her  invariable 
"Now,  ma'am,  what'll  I  fly  at  next?"  was  con- 
tradictory to  her  deliberation.  Nothing  ruf- 
fled her.  In  a  temperamental  family  this  as- 
set is  not  to  be  despised.  To  Experience  Will 
was  an  enigma.  She  confided  to  me,  soon  after 
allying  herself  with  our  household,  that  she 
was  never  sure  when  Will  was  making  believe 
and  when  he  was  himself.  She  felt  certain  he 
must  sometimes  mix  himself  "p.  It  was  her 
way  of  explaining  a  dual  personality. 

Will  liked  to  play  golf.     Several  times   a 


104          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

week  we  tramped  across  the  hills  to  the  Club, 
some  two  miles  distant.  We  never  left  the 
links  without  several  girls  in  our  train.  It  was 
impossible  to  shake  them  off.  Sometimes  they 
accompanied  us  to  the  house  and  sat  on  the 
porch  to  rest.  Later  they  discovered  that 
afternoon  tea  was  an  institution  with  me.  I 
am  sure  that  Experience  enjoyed  these  little 
tea-parties  as  much  as  did  the  girls.  Punc- 
tually at  four  o'clock  she  would  appear  on  the 
porch,  neatly  dressed.  With  scissors  in  hand 
she  raided  the  flower-beds  for  lady-slippers  and 
clove-geranium  with  which  to  adorn  the  table. 
The  stone  jar  in  which  she  kept  the  cookies  was 
never  empty.  And  when  the  girls  came  troop- 
ing up  the  lane  she  was  the  first  to  hear  them 
and  to  rouse  Will  from  his  siesta. 

Will  said  he  felt  like  a  bull  in  a  china  shop 
at  these  informal  teas.  I  thought  he  was 
charming  and  agreeable  though  he  pretended 
he  was  bored.  After  tea  we  would  wander  out 
of  doors.  Nearly  all  the  girls  took  snap-shots 
of  Will.  He  tried  to  find  a  new  pose  for  each 
of  them.  "The  man  with  the  hoe"  showed 
Will  among  the  cabbages,  resting  on  the  handle 
of  the  hoe.  "Under  the  old  apple  tree"  was 
effective  even  if  the  apple  tree  was  an  oak. 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          105 

Reclining  on  a  mound  of  hay,  carted  for  the 
purpose  by  the  faithful  Aaih,  was  labelled  "In 
the  good  old  summer  time."  "The  actor  at 
play"  showed  Will  with  a  golf-stick  in  his 
hand.  Later  Will  autographed  the  pictures. 

Many  were  the  questions  we  were  called 
upon  to  answer  concerning  the  stage  as  a  ca- 
reer. We  were  asked  to  verify  all  sorts  of 
silly  gossip  about  players.  It  was  well-nigh 
impossible  to  convince  them  that  all  male  stars 
were  not  in  love  with  their  leading  ladies  and 
vice  versa.  It  goes  without  saying  that  I 
should  not  escape  the  inevitable  question, 
"How  did  I  feel  when  I  saw  my  husband  mak- 
ing love  to  another  woman?"  It  amused  me 
to  watch  the  little  subterfuges  to  which  the 
girls  resorted  to  win  my  favour.  Bon-bons 
were  the  bribes  most  in  vogue.  One  day  I 
overheard  a  newcomer  to  our  circle  tell  an- 
other girl,  "You  didn't  tell  me  he  was  married 
— and  a  baby,  too.  How  terribly  unromantic ! 
I'll  never  go  to  see  him  act  again  as  long  as  I 
live." 

Will  and  I  laughed  over  the  situation,  albeit 
there  is  a  considerable  ground  for  the  mana- 
gerial contention  that  actors  and  actresses 
should  not  marry,  or,  if  married,  the  fact 


io6         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

should  be  suppressed  rather  than  advertised. 
Indeed,  who  likes  to  think  of  her  Romeo  as 
dawdling  a  colicky  baby  during  the  wee  sma' 
hours  about  the  time  he  should  be  exclaiming 
with  unfettered  fervour,  uWhat  light  from 
yonder  window  breaks?  It  is  the  east,  and 
Juliet  is  the  sun!"  I  recall  a  tragedy  of  my 
own  romantic  youth  upon  discovering  that  a 
favourite  actor  was  not  only  a  father,  but  that 
he  wore — O,  horrible,  most  horrible — a  tou- 
pee! 

There  was  no  escaping  the  amateur  theatri- 
cals. I  predicted  it  early  in  the  summer.  The 
proceeds  of  the  entertainment  were  to  be  ap- 
plied toward  the  discharging  of  the  debt  of  the 
Golf  Club.  Will  was  asked  to  take  entire 
charge  of  the  programme.  His  position  was 
no  sinecure. 

It  was  their  first  intention  to  give  "As  You 
Like  It"  in  the  open,  but  as  every  young 
woman  thought  herself  particularly  adapted  to 
the  requirements  of  Rosalind,  Will  found  him- 
self in  a  delicate  position.  The  young  men  of 
the  community  themselves  cut  the  Gordian 
knot.  They  aspired  to  be  comedians.  Vaude- 
ville was  finally  decided  upon.  A  quartette  of 
college  students  blacked  up  and  gave  a  min- 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          107 

strel  show.  Some  of  the  jokes  were  local  and 
aimed  at  the  idiosyncrasies  of  the  cottagers. 
Others  were  purloined  from  Jo  Miller's  joke- 
book.  There  was  a  trombone  solo  by  the  vil- 
lage farrier,  several  vocal  duets  and  a  selec- 
tion from  the  Mikado.  Will  contributed  sev- 
eral monologues.  But  the  star  feature  of  the 
evening  was  the  performance  of  Dolly  in  a 
scene  from  the  Wizard  of  Oz.  She  was  a 
dainty  creature  with  Dresden  china  beauty  and 
bovine  eyes  and  had  been  much  admired  by 
the  male  contingent  of  the  colony.  Everybody 
felt  sure  there  was  a  treat  in  store  for  them. 
There  was.  When  Dolly  entered,  leading  the 
amiable  Bossy,  a  gasp  reverberated  through 
the  erstwhile  bowling  alley.  Dolly's  short 
skirt  revealed  nether  extremities  which  would 
have  done  great  credit  to  Barnum's  fat  lady 
or  a  baby  grand  piano ! 

Our  vacation  passed  all  too  quickly.  The 
day  approached  when  we  needs  must  bid  good- 
bye to  our  retreat.  .  .  .  The  memory  of  the 
old  farm-house  lingers  still.  The  chill  in  the 
air  at  nightfall;  the  warmth  of  the  log-fire;  the 
sense  of  comfort  and  content;  the  green  paste- 
board shade  on  the  lamp;  the  rag  rug  on  the 
floor.  In  my  mind's  eye  I  see  the  old  couple 


io8          MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

sitting  here  of  winter  nights;  Ma,  piecing  to- 
gether the  vari-coloured  rags  for  the  summer 
weaving;  Pa,  nodding  over  last  week's  news; 
Snyder  stretched  out  in  front  of  the  fire,  whim- 
pering in  his  dreams.  How  far  removed  from 
the  feverish  walk  of  our  life,  with  its  hopes, 
its  struggles,  its  heart-burns,  and  its  empty 
fame!  Yet,  they,  as  we,  were  "merely 
players." 


CHAPTER   VII 

REHEARSALS  for  the  new  play  began  in  Au- 
gust. The  days  were  wilting  but  the  theatrical 
world  up  and  doing.  Every  available  stage, 
hall  and  loft  was  requisitioned.  Several  com- 
panies shared  the  same  stage,  dividing  the 
hours  between  them.  Will's  manager  had  his 
own  theatre  and  the  rehearsals  were  all-day 
affairs.  Will  studied  his  part  at  night  after 
"the  family"  had  retired.  Sometimes  I  would 
lie  awake  and  listen  to  him,  talking  aloud, 
reading  a  line  first  with  one  inflection  and  then 
trying  another.  Will's  voice  was  one  of  his 
greatest  assets. 

Experience  had  come  back  to  town  with  us. 
Before  leaving  the  mountains,  Will  had  jest- 
ingly asked  her  whether  she  would  like  to  see 
Broadway.  She  took  him  at  his  word.  We 
flattered  ourselves  she  had  become  fond  of  us. 
We  discovered  later  that  it  was  the  profession, 
not  the  family,  which  lured  her.  She  had 
found  a  new  volume  of  faery  lore.  Will  was 
109 


no         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

the  faery  prince.  Sometimes  I  wondered  just 
how  Experience  reconciled  Will's  morning 
grumpiness  with  her  preconceived  notion  of  a 
hero.  I  recall  how  after  seeing  Will  in  a  new 
role  he  had  asked  her  how  she  liked  him.  She 
expressed  herself  as  pleased  with  the  play  in 
general  and  with  him  in  particular.  But  after 
he  left  the  room  she  confided  to  me  the  follow- 
ing: "Ain't  he  the  naturalest  thing  when  he 
yells  at  that  man  with  the  powdered  hair, 
Jackwees  or  somethin'  like  that — 'Jackwees, 
bring  me  my  sword!'  I  declare,  ma'am,  I 
jumped  a  foot  and  started  for  that  sword !  It 
was  so  natural;  that's  just  the  way  he  yells 
when  I  forget  the  morning  papers." 

The  reliability  of  Experience  brought  me 
more  leisure.  I  was  free  to  go  about  without 
worry  over  the  boy.  I  felt  that  intellectually 
I  needed  stimulus  and  I  planned  a  winter's 
work.  Of  course  everything  depended  upon 
the  play  "getting  over,"  to  use  the  vernacular. 
Will  said  he  did  not  see  how  it  could  fail. 
Everyone  connected  with  the  production  said 
the  same  thing.  Success  was  in  the  air.  Sev- 
eral times  I  had  dropped  in  to  see  a  rehearsal. 
I  was  interested  to  know  the  "method"  of  this 
particular  manager  about  whom  so  much  had 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          in 

been  written.  His  productions  were  always 
effectively  mounted.  Magazine  articles,  full- 
page  interviews  had  from  time  to  time  printed 
his  recipes  for  evolving  successful  stars  as  well 
as  money-making  plays.  One  thrilling  ac- 
count in  particular — supposedly  his  own  words 
— told  of  the  strenuous  training  of  the  tyro; 
how  he  aroused  in  his  actors  the  precise  degree 
of  emotion  necessary  to  a  given  scene.  "I 
dragged  her  by  the  hair!"  or  "I  pictured  her 
own  mother  lying  dead,  foully  murdered,  be- 
fore her  until  she  cried  aloud  at  the  picture  I 
had  conjured."  Again,  "I  tied  my  wrists  to- 
gether, I  rolled  about  the  floor,  struggling  to 
free  myself;  I  wanted 'to  feel  just  what  a  man 
would  feel  under  similar  conditions!"  These 
and  other  highly  coloured  statements  had  from 
time  to  time  been  served  up  to  the  public.  It 
is  amazing  how  gullibly  the  public  bites  at  the 
press-agent's  worm.  In  nearly  all  such  in- 
stances nothing  could  be  farther  from  the 
truth.  My  own  observation  convinced  me 
that  the  man's  genius  lay  in  his  ability  to  select 
the  right  person  for  the  right  place.  Having 
made  the  selection  he  played  upon  the  amour 
propre  of  his  puppets.  He  led  them  to  be- 
lieve he  had  supreme  confidence  in  their  abil- 


ii2          MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

ity.  The  ruse  was  successful.  It  is  the  better 
part  of  human  nature  to  want  to  measure  up 
to  the  good  opinion  of  others. 

His  methods  of  conducting  a  rehearsal  were 
the  simplest.  He  had  infinite  patience  and 
perseverance.  He  left  nothing  to  chance.  A 
scene  or  an  effect  was  repeated  until  the  "me- 
chanics" became  automatic.  His  voice  never 
rose  above  a  conversational  tone.  He  knew 
that  to  command  others  he  must  first  be  in 
command  of  himself.  He  left  the  roaring  to 
petty  understrappers  with  inflated  ideas  of 
their  own  importance.  Once  -in  a  blue  moon 
he  let  go.  The  effect  was  electrifying.  I 
strongly  suspected,  however,  that  there  was 
more  or  less  "acting"  in  these  outbursts.  Just 
as  his  reluctant  appearance  before  the  curtain 
on  first  nights  was  a  "carefully  prepared  bit  of 
impromptu  acting."  The  frightened  expres- 
sion of  his  face;  the  quick,  nervous  walk;  the 
almost  inaudible  voice  when  he  thanked  his 
audience,  "on  behalf  of  the  star,  the  author 
(or  co-author),  the  musicians,  the  costumers, 
the  scenic  artists"  and  so  on  down  the  line ;  this 
with  his  mannerism  of  tugging  at  a  picturesque 
forelock,  this  alone  was  worth  the  price  of  ad- 
mission. First  and  last  he  was  a  good  show- 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          113 

man.  The  star  who  was  the  stepping  stone  to 
his  fame  and  fortune  was  a  lady  with  a  past. 
She  had  entered  the  stage  door  through  the 
advertising  medium  of  the  divorce  court.  After 
several  unsuccessful  attempts  at  starring  she 
placed  herself  under  the  tuition  of  the  manager, 
then  allied  with  a  school  of  acting.  Possessed 
of  abundant  animal  vitality — "magnetism,"  if 
you  prefer — as  well  as  "temperament,"  the 
ugly  duckling  developed  into  a  star  of  first 
magnitude.  When  Will  joined  the  company 
she  was  at  the  height  of  her  success — a  success 
which  later  dulled  the  finer  artistic  restraint 
and  listed  toward  a  fall.  But  act  she  could, 
playing  upon  each  reed,  each  stop  of  the  emo- 
tional organ,  with  a  conviction  of  which  few 
actresses  are  capable.  In  the  choice  of  plays 
the  genius  of  the  man  again  displayed  itself; 
the  right  play  for  the  right  person.  Doubt- 
less, he  understood  that  temperament,  after  all, 
is  but  the  flood-tide  of  our  natural  predilections. 
To  the  layman  a  rehearsal  is  a  bewildering 
and  murky  affair.  Seated  in  the  "front  of  the 
house,"  in  the  clammy  shadow  of  shrouded 
seats,  a  student  of  human  nature  finds  much  to 
interest  him.  Under  the  light  of  a  single 
"bunch"  or  the  "blanching"  irregular  foots,  the 


ii4          MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

players  look  old  and  insignificant.  The  blue 
white  light  has  a  cruel  way  of  exposing  the 
lines  and  seams.  They  sit  about  or  stand  in 
groups,  the  blue-covered  typewritten  parts  in 
hand  awaiting  the  call  of  the  first  act.  A 
youngish  man,  probably  the  assistant  stage- 
manager,  sets  the  stage;  that  is,  he  marks  the 
entrances  and  the  boundaries  with  plain 
wooden  chairs  and  stage-braces.  The  homely 
wooden  chair  plays  many  parts;  now  it  stands 
for  a  fire-place  or  a  grand  piano,  again  it  may 
be  a  rocky  pass  beyond  which  are  the  moun- 
tains. 

A  fagged  looking  man  enters  the  stage  door 
with  a  hurried,  important  air.  By  the  bundle 
of  manuscript  under  his  arm  shall  you  know 
him.  It  is  the  stage-manager.  He  greets  the 
members  of  the  company  with  a  curt,  preoccu- 
pied air  and  hurries  down  to  the  prompt  stand. 
There  are  consultations  with  the  working  staff 
and  perhaps  with  one  or  two  of  the  players. 
While  he  is  thus  engaged  let  us  enquire  into 
the  personnel  of  the  company;  that  tall  good- 
looker  in  the  well  tailored  gown  is  a  newcomer 
to  the  stage.  She  has  been  given  a  small  part 
— a  half  dozen  lines  at  best.  On  twenty  dol- 
lars a  week  she  carries  a  maid — and  a  jewel 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          115 

case.  No,  she  does  not  have  to  work  for  a 
living;  neither  is  she  the  spoilt  child  of  a  multi- 
millionaire. She  belongs  to  that  great  class  of 
women  who  have  no  class.  Time  hangs  heav- 
ily on  her  hands.  It  looks  better  to  be  con- 
nected with  some  kind  of  a  profession;  a  legiti- 
mate profession.  Besides,  her  vanity  makes 
her  "want  to  do  something."  The  stage  has 
always  appealed  to  her.  With  a  little  "influ- 
ence" she  gets  a  part.  Salary  is  no  object. 
Perhaps  the  management  has  saved  five  or  ten 
dollars  a  week  on  the  deal.  At  any  rate  a 
good-looker  adds  "class"  to  the  personnel.  She 
drives  to  the  theatre  in  a  taxi ;  sometimes  she 
comes  in  a  big  limousine  car  accompanied  by 
an  elderly  gentleman  with  watery  eyes.  On 
the  opening  night  he  will  send  her  great  boxes 
of  American  Beauty  roses.  After  the  show 
they  will  sup  at  Rector's,  and  his  friends  who 
have  been  in  front  with  him  will  tell  her  how 
pretty  she  looked.  Of  course  she  will  not  go 
on  the  road  with  the  company.  Dear  no !  She 
will  leave  that  to  some  other  girl  who  is  not 
so  young,  not  so  pretty,  but  who  needs  the 
money. 

The  white-haired  lady  with  the  sweet  face 
and  the  stern  old  man  who  has  brought  her  a 


n6         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

chair  are  man  and  wife.  Theirs  is  one  of  the 
few  stage  marriages  which  have  endured.  Per- 
haps it  is  the  very  rarity  of  the  case  which 
makes  them  so  popular  and  well-beloved.  One 
hears  them  invariably  referred  to  as  "Dear  old 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  So  and  So."  One  looks  at  them 
wistfully  and  wonders  at  the  secret  of  their 
success.  .  .  . 

The  actor  with  the  monocle,  oddly  cut 
clothes  and  the  overpowering  savoir-faire  is  an 
English  importation.  Managers  assert  that 
the  average  English  actor  plays  the  gentleman 
more  effectively  than  his  American  cousin.  It 
all  depends  on  what  kind  of  a  gentleman  the 
role  demands.  When  an  Englishman  is  called 
upon  to  portray  a  gentlemanly  officer  of  the 
United  States  Army  the  effect  is  incongruous 
to  say  the  least.  The  American  manager,  vul- 
gar and  uncouth  himself,  is  impressed  by  the 
English  complacency.  A  bluffer,  he  has  a 
sneaking  respect  for  anyone  who  throws  a  bluff 
and  gets  away  with  it. 

The  several  youngish  men  with  a  hint  of 
effeminancy  in  their  make-up  might  be  called 
the  "stationaries"  or  "walking  gentlemen." 
One  of  this  genre  is  to  be  found  in  nearly  every 
company.  Too  proud  for  the  ribbon  counter, 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          117 

too  erratic  for  commercial  life,  he  drifts  into 
the  profession  because  he  feels  the  call  of  the 
artistic  temperament.  He  plays  small  parts, 
disseminates  gossip,  flatters  the  star — or  the 
leading  lady — reads  a  little,  sleeps  much — and 
drinks  more. 

That  beefy  looking  man  is  the  leading  heavy. 
Not  many  years  since  he  was  a  leading  man. 
Now  when  a  leading  man  takes  on  flesh  he  is 
marked  for  a  reduction  in  value.  The  first 
step  down  in  his  career  is  the  day  he  begins  to 
play  heavies.  To  be  sure,  there  are  heavy  men 
who  never  have  been  leading  men;  these,  how- 
ever, come  under  the  head  of  character  heavies. 
The  gentlemanly  heavy  unfailingly  aspires  to 
heroic  roles.  The  present  incumbent  of  vil- 
lainy had  "fallen  on  his  feet."  Some  seasons 
previously  he  had  played  an  inconsequential  en- 
gagement under  the  same  management.  The 
star  took  a  fancy  to  him.  Henceforth  his  en- 
gagements were  assured — until  the  fancy 
waned.  Everybody  understood;  they  shrugged 
their  shoulders  and  smiled.  Nobody  cared. 
Neither  did  the  heavy  man. 

Character  actors  without  exception  are  envi- 
ous of  the  leading  man.  "Call  that  acting  ?" 
demands  the  man  behind  the  make-up.  "Call 


n8          MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

it  acting  to  walk  on  and  play  yourself?  Why, 
it's  a  cinch!" 

"O,  is  it?"  retorts  the  leading  man.  "You 
ought  to  try  it.  It's  the  most  difficult  thing  in 
the  world  to  walk  on  and  be  perfectly  natural. 
Fd  like  to  see  some  of  you  fellows  who  hide 
behind  your  wigs  and  queer  make-ups  go  on 
and  play  a  straight  part.  Why  you  wouldn't 
know  what  to  do  with  your  hands !"  .  .  . 

There  was  something  plaintive  about  the 
woman  who  sat  in  the  shadow  of  the  set-pieces, 
piled  high  against  the  wall.  The  rouge  on  her 
cheeks  but  accentuated  the  lines  in  her  face. 
The  brassy  gold  on  her  hair  showed  gray 
against  her  temples.  "Better  days"  was  clearly 
stamped  all  over  her.  Perhaps  she  was  think- 
ing of  those  days — when  she  was  a  star;  when 
being  a  star  meant  something  more  than  an 
animated  clothes-horse.  Her  mother  had  been 
a  great  actress  in  the  Booth  and  Barrett  days. 
She,  herself,  had  lisped  some  childish  lines  with 
them.  Later,  she  had  become  a  soubrette  and 
a  star  in  merry  little  plays  in  which  she  sang 
and  danced  and  "emoted,"  all  in  one  evening. 
There  are  no  soubrettes  nowadays.  The  term 
has  degenerated  into  a  slangy  sobriquet.  "In- 
genue" has  replaced  it;  nothing  is  required  of 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          119 

an  ingenue  but  saccharine  sweetness  and  vacu- 
ous prettiness — and  youth,  youth,  youth! 
O,  the  harvest  of  age !  The  public  which  she 
had  amused  for  years  has  forgotten  her.  They 
scarcely  recall  her  existence :  not  even  a  hand  of 
recognition  on  her  entrance.  Occasionally  a 
reviewer  will  dig  her  out  of  the  dust  of  the 
past — only  to  speak  of  her  as  "in  Memoriam." 
Managers,  too,  hesitate  to  engage  her.  There 
are  so  many  has-beens  and  so  few  parts  to  fit 
them.  Besides,  there  are  freshly  spawned 
pupils  from  the  divine  academies  to  be  had  for 
the  asking.  Why  waste  money?  .  .  . 

A  psychical  ripple  disturbs  the  ether.  Necks 
crane  toward  the  door.  The  star  arrives.  She 
comes  slowly,  with  the  air  of  one  assured  of  an 
effective  entrance.  She  punctuates  her  ani- 
mated conversation  with  the  manager  with 
smiles  and  nods.  That  meek-looking  person 
bringing  up  the  rear  is  the  author.  He  gropes 
his  way  through  the  dark  passage  to  the  front 
of  the  house  and  is  lost  in  oblivion. 

"First  act!"  calls  the  prompter.  "First  act!" 


The  play  opened  out  of  town.     The  work- 
ing force  was  sent  ahead  with  the  scenery  and 


120         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

the  baggage.  There  was  a  special  train  for 
the  company.  Besides  the  regular  staff  there 
were  costumers,  flash-light  photographers,  rela- 
tives of  the  players  and  guests  of  the  manage- 
ment. The  guests  included  several  critics  from 
certain  New  York  journals.  One  of  these  had 
an  ambitious  wife  who  was  a  member  of  the 
company.  The  other,  rumour  had  it,  was  on 
the  salary  list  of  the  management.  This  may 
or  may  not  have  been  true.  Subsequent  effu- 
sive reviews  and  the  manner  in  which  these 
critics  took  up  the  cudgels  against  the  enemies 
of  the  manager  did  not,  however,  indicate  un- 
biased opinion.  "Subsidized  or  hypnotized" — 
that  was  the  question.  The  persuasive  art  of 
"fixing"  is  not  confined  to  politics. 

When  the  train  arrived  in ,  there 

was  barely  time  for  a  hasty  bite  before  rushing 
off  to  the  theatre.  One  felt  the  thrill  of  excite- 
ment at  the  very  stage  door.  Even  the  back 
doorkeeper  was  infected.  When  Will  stopped 
to  look  through  the  pigeon-holes  for  mail,  the 
keeper  of  the  sacred  portal  was  exhibiting  a 
brand  new  litter  of  kittens.  "Everyone  of  'em 
black;  just  like  their  mother.  Your  show'll  be 
a  big  success — talk  about  your  mascots !"  Stage- 
folk  are  as  superstitious  as  a  nigger  mammy. 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          121 

A  whole  chapter  might  be  devoted  to  their  lore. 
One  of  the  greatest  hoodoos  is  to  speak  the  tag 
of  a  play  before  the  opening  night.  The  tag 
of  a  play  is  the  last  several  words  immediately 
preceding  the  final  fall  of  the  curtain.  When 
it  comes  to  the  tag,  the  actor  to  whose  lot  the 
final  lines  fall  either  stops  with  a  gesture  or 
perhaps  he  purloins  Hamlet's  last  words — 
"The  rest  is  silence." 

Back  on  the  stage  there  was  the  sound  of 
hammers,  the  shouts  of  the  stage-hands  to  the 
men  in  the  flies,  "drops"  being  adjusted,  calls 
of  warning  to  some  reckless  person  about  to 
come  in  contact  with  a  sandbag  at  that  moment 
lowered  from  the  flies.  Abrupt  blasts  of  the 
orchestra  reach  one's  ears.  The  music  cues 
are  being  rehearsed,  the  director  shouting 
against  the  din  on  the  stage.  On  the  "apron," 
with  a  bottle  of  milk  in  his  hand  and  sur- 
rounded by  a  half  dozen  coatless  and  perspir- 
ing men,  is  the  producer.  A  shaft  of  light 
darts  from  the  spot-light  machine  in  the  gal- 
lery, and  hovers  over  the  stage  like  a  search- 
light at  sea.  Green,  yellow,  red  and  blue 
slides  are  tried  and  a  weird  waving  moving  pic- 
ture effect  brings  a  shout  of  laughter  from  the 
privileged  watchers  in  front.  In  the  dressing- 


122          MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

rooms  the  players  are  making  up.  The  ward- 
robe mistress  hurries  from  one  to  another,  nee- 
dle and  thread  in  hand.  There  are  impatient 
calls  for  the  head  costumer;  "Props11  taps  at 
the  doors  and  delivers  the  properties  to  be  car- 
ried by  the  various  actors  in  the  play.  The 
actors  talk  across  the  partitions  or  run  through 
lines  of  a  "shaky"  scene.  "Fifteen  minutes — 
fifteen  minutes!"  warns  the  assistant  stage 
manager  making  the  rounds.  Below  stage,  the 
supers  or  "extra  people"  sit  about  in  noisy 
groups  awaiting  the  call.  Some  of  them  are 
as  "nervous  as  a  cat,"  to  use  their  own  expres- 
sion. These  are  not  the  rank  and  file  of  super- 
numeraries. The  promise  of  a  long  run  in 
New  York  ofttimes  tempts  women  who  have 
"spoken  lines"  to  go  on  as  extra  ladies.  As  a 
sop  they  are  given  a  leading  part  to  under- 
study. The  excitement  is  infectious.  With 
the  lowering  of  the  curtain  and  the  first  strains 
of  the  orchestra  one  instinctively  shifts  forward 
to  the  edge  of  one's  seat. 

It  is  either  the  lights  or  a  missing  prop  or  a 
hiatus  between  speech  and  action  which  the 
first  acquaintance  with  the  scenery  develops  or 
a  "jumbled"  ensemble  or  something  unexpected 
which  brings  the  rehearsal  to  an  abrupt  halt. 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          123 

The  dialogue  stops  like  a  megaphone  suddenly 
shut  off.  The  director  hurries  down  the  cen- 
tre aisle,  the  prompter's  head  appears  at  the 
proscenium  arch.  "Loved  I  not  honour  more !" 
repeats  the  actor,  looking  expectantly  off  stage. 
"Loved  I  not  honour  more !"  bellows  the  stage- 
manager,  getting  into  the  game.  "That's  your 
cue,  Mr.  Prime  Minister.  Mr.  Jones.  Mr. 
Jones!  Where  is  Mr.  Jones?" 

"Jones!  Jones!"  reverberates  about  the 
stage  and  in  the  flies. 

"Here  I  am!  I  hear  you!"  answers  a  muf- 
fled voice  up-stage.  "I  can't  get  through.  The 
entrance's  blocked  with  a  sacred  elephant!" 
There  is  a  rush  of  stage  hands  in  the  direction 
indicated.  Simultaneously  Mr.  Jones  appears 
L.  i.  E.  "I'm  sorry,"  he  says,  "but  I  couldn't 
butt  in  through  the  stone  walls  of  the  castle, 
now  could  I?"  indicating  the  boxed  set  which 
formed  the  outer  walls  of  the  scene. 

The  obstruction  is  removed  amidst  a  heated 
confab  and  the  stage  cleared  for  action.  "Go 
back — go  back  to  Miss  Melon's  entrance." 
Miss  Melon  enters.  The  scene  starts  flatly 
enough.  It  is  difficult  to  pick  up  a  scene  and 
get  back  into  the  atmosphere  at  once.  One 
must  "warm  up  to  it." 


i24         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

A  star  requires  an  effective  entrance.  The 
audience  must  be  apprised  of  her  approach. 
"Here  she  comes  now!"  (accompanied  by  a 
look  off  stage.)  Or,  a  flunkey  enters  and  sol- 
emnly announces,  "His  Highness,  Prince  of 
Ptomania,  mounts  the  steps."  These  helpful 
hints  prepare  the  reception  which  the  ushers 
start  at  the  psychological  moment.  Many  per- 
sons are  backward  about  applauding  for  fear 
of  making  a  mistake:  just  follow  the  usher. 
The  supporting  actors  understand  that  they  are 
expected  to  "humour"  the  applause,  either  upon 
an  entrance  or  for  a  scene.  Stars,  however, 
do  not  always  encourage  applause  for  their  sup- 
porting actors.  Some  of  them  go  so  far  as  to 
"shut  it  off"  by  flashing  on  house  light  on  a  cur- 
tain in  which  they  do  not  figure,  or  dimming 
the  foots  or  directing  the  actors  to  "jump  in" 
with  the  next  speech. 

In  the  midst  of  a  scene  which  sends  little 
shivers  up  and  down  one's  spinal  column  the 
star  hesitates,  stammers,  repeats,  then  interpo- 
lates while  she  searches  frantically  among  the 
papers  on  the  table  for  the  missing  prop. 
"Where's  the  knife — the  fatal  dagger?"  she 
demands,  dropping  the  role  as  one  would  step 
out  of  a  petticoat.  The  man  about  to  be  killed 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          125 

joins  in  the  hunt  for  the  deadly  weapon.  "I 
can't  kill  you  very  well  without  a  knife,  can  I, 
Jack?  Unless  I  stab  you  with  a  hatpin — " 
There  is  something  so  incongruous  in  the  rapid 
contrasts  that  everyone,  including  the  star  her- 
self, gives  way  to  laughter.  Meanwhile  the 
stage-manager's  yells  for  Props  have  brought 
that  culprit  from  the  flies  where  he  has  been 
touching  up  a  damp  cloud  with  a  paint  brush. 

"The  knife !"  a  chorus  hurls  at  him. 

"What  knife?"  he  demands,  continuing  to 
mix  the  silver  lining  to  the  cloud. 

"The  dagger!  I  told  you  the  last  thing  not 
to  forget  it!"  fumes  the  bumptious  stage- 
manager. 

"Aw,  what's  the  matter  with  you?"  replies 
Props  witheringly.  Then  he  ambles  down  to 
the  star,  who  by  this  time  is  lost  in  a  little  side- 
play  with  her  heavy  man.  "Miss  Blank,"  he 
begins  with  punctuation  marks  between  each 
word,  "Miss  Blank,  didn't  you  tell  me  to  leave 
that  knife  on  your  dressing  table  so  you  could 
place  it  where  you  wanted  it  on  the  table  cen- 
tre?" 

"I  did,  I  did!  I  apologize,  Johnny — I  beg 
everybody's  pardon!"  She  makes  a  contrite 
bow  toward  the  front  of  the  house.  Johnny 


126         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

shuffles  off,  muttering  to  himself,  and  Madame's 
maid  enters  with  the  missing  link.  "Let's  be- 
gin at  your  cross, "  Madame  says  to  the  heavy. 
"Just  before  you  say,  'Darling,  my  life,  my 
love,  you1  re  mine  at  last!1  And  Jack — I  hope 
your  wooden  chest  protector  is  in  place,  for 
I'm  going  to  strike  to-night  just  as  I  am  going 
to  do  to-morrow  night  and  turn  it  r-r-round  and 
r-r-round,  as  if  I  loved  your  blood — and  Mr. 
Director,'1  she  glides  to  the  foots  and  shades 
her  eyes  from  the  glare,  uHerr  Director,  can?t 
you  play  a  little  more  piano  just  at  that  point? 
I  want  my  gurgle  of  delight  to  get  over — 
understand?  .  .  .  O,  Mr.  Hartley,  while  I 
think  of  it " 

She  toys  with  the  ornaments  on  his  dress  as 
she  speaks.  "In  our  next  scene  give  me  a  little 
more  room;  play  farther  down  stage.  It's  bet- 
ter for  our  scene."  Mr.  Hartley  smiles  to  him- 
self as  he  disappears  in  the  wings;  he  is  "on-to" 
the  little  tricks  of  stars  and  leading  ladies.  To 
make  a  vis-a-vis  play  the  scene  down  stage  is  to 
rob  him  of  any  effective  participation  in  the 
scene.  "To  hog11  is  the  vulgar  but  expressive 
infinitive  applied  to  this  trick  of  the  trade. 

After  many  false  starts,  the  end  of  the  act  is 
finally  reached.  The  players  are  then  posed  in 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          127 

certain  effective  scenes  from  the  play  and  the 
flash-light  pictures  are  taken.  Then  comes  a 
change  of  costume  and  the  second  act  is  set. 
During  the  long  wait  members  of  the  company 
come  in  front  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  scenery 
or  to  discuss  the  play  and  the  performance  with 
their  friends.  I  recall  an  instance  which  will 
exemplify  the  jealousy  of  one  star  for  another, 
especially  those  under  the  same  management. 
During  the  early  years  of  Will's  career  he  had 
played  with  a  summer  stock  company.  The 
leading  woman  of  the  organization  was  now 
one  of  the  stars  under  Will's  present  manage- 
ment. She  had  come  on  from  her  country 
home — (her  own  season  had  not  yet  opened) 
— and  was  an  interested  spectator  of  the  dress 
rehearsal.  She  and  Will  had  kept  up  a  desul- 
tory interest  during  the  intervening  years  and 
were  on  a  friendly  footing.  "What  do  you 
think  of  the  play?"  he  asked,  sitting  down  be- 
side her. 

"It's  a  sensation,"  she  predicted.  "How 
does  your  part  pan  out?" 

"O,  it's  a  fair  part.  I've  got  a  couple  of  big 
scenes,  but  the  heavy  makes  circles  all  around 
him.  If  I  had  read  the  play  before  I  signed, 
I  believe  I  should  have  turned  it  down." 


128          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

"What  do  you  care — you're  the  hero,  and 
that  is  what  counts  with  the  women.  It  fits 
you  like  a  glove;  and,  speaking  of  parts,  what 
do  you  think  of  that  for  a  star-part?  Did 
you  ever  see  anything  like  it?  She's  the  whole 
show.  .  .  .  When  I  think  of  the  also-ran  I  am 
playing  for  a  star  part  ...  let  me  tell  you — 
just  between  ourselves — that  he'll  have  to  hand 
me  out  something  fatter  next  season  or  there'll 
be  something  doing  in  another  direction.  Little 
Abe's  syndicate  has  been  making  eyes  at  me 
and — you  never  can  tell.  Glory!  I  never  saw 
such  an  acting  part  in  my  life!  Why,  she 
isn't  off  the  stage  two  minutes  during  the  whole 

first  act !" 

*  *  *  * 

It  is  past  midnight  when  the  curtain  goes 
down  on  the  second  act.  The  lights  have 
worked  badly  and  for  an  hour  the  electricians 
have  been  put  through  the  paces  until  the  de- 
sired effect  is  reached.  Spirits  begin  to  flag. 
The  Englishman's  wife  sets  up  a  tea  basket; 
friends  and  relatives  are  sent  out  for  sand- 
wiches and  "something  to  wash  'em  down."  At 
this  stage  of  the  siege  one  becomes  a  mere  ma- 
chine. There  is  no  attempt  at  acting.  It  is 
now  a  mechanical  perfection.  When  the  scenic 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          129 

effects  refuse  to  act  on  cues  or  "anticipate"  the 
same,  or  the  supers  jumble  and  everybody 
grows  cross  and  "on  edge,"  one  shudders  to 
realize  that  the  opening  night  is  close  at  hand. 
One  hopes  and  prays  things  will  not  go  like  this 
tomorrow  night.  There  is  consolation  in  the 
old  adage:  "A  poor  dress  rehearsal — a  good 
first  night." 

We  leave  the  theatre  when  the  milkman  is 
making  his  rounds.  A  day  of  fitful  sleep  with 
its  undercurrent  of  tension;  the  opening  night 
with  nerves  tuned  to  the  highest  pitch,  then  suc- 
cess or  failure,  who  can  tell?  The  box  office 
is  the  arbiter. 

The  opening  night  is  not  the  only  strain  at- 
tendant upon  a  new  production.  One  is  on 
tenter-hooks  for  days,  perhaps  weeks,  to  learn 
whether  the  play  has  "caught  on"  or  not. 
Favourable,  even  laudatory,  reviews  will  not 
drag  the  public  into  the  theatre  if  they  do  not 
like  the  offering.  Stars  may  have  a  certain 
drawing  power,  but  "The  play's  the  thing." 
No  star  ever  yet  saved  a  bad  play  from  ob- 
livion or  spoiled  a  good  play  with  bad  acting. 

I  am  sure  that  Will  and  the  members  of  the 
company  watched  the  "houses"  from  the  peep- 
holes in  the  curtain  as  eagerly  as  the  star  and 


130         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

the  management  kept  an  eye  on  the  box-office 
receipts.  "How  was  the  house  last  night?'* 
was  the  daily  question  I  put  to  Will  with  his 
morning  coffee.  Finally  we  settled  back  with 
the  assurance  of  a  season's  run  ahead  of  us.  I 
set  in  motion  the  plans  I  had  outlined  for  my- 
self. I  induced  Will  to  study  languages  with 
me  for  a  time,  but  his  hours  were  so  uncertain 
that  he  finally  dropped  out.  Music  was  a  pas- 
sion with  me.  I  went  through  a  whole  season 
of  the  Opera  treat  I  had  promised  myself  for 
years.  Will  was  fond  of  music,  too,  and  some- 
times we  would  go  together  to  the  Sunday  night 
concerts  at  the  Metropolitan.  Of  course  there 
were  still  the  dinner-parties  and  the  supper- 
parties  and  matinees  for  benevolent  purposes. 
Will  seemed  to  have  tired  of  the  parties  and 
spent  more  and  more  of  his  time  at  the  Lambs. 
He  never  came  home  to  supper  after  the  thea- 
tre nowadays.  I  missed  my  little  talks  with 
him  across  the  supper  table.  There  was  no 
longer  any  need  to  throw  cold  water  in  my 
face  to  keep  myself  fresh  until  his  coming. 
Sometimes  when  I  was  wakeful  I  would  hear 
him  come  in ;  it  was  generally  daylight.  Some- 
times, on  Sunday  morning,  if  he  found  me 
awake  he  would  hand  me  the  Morning  Tele- 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND         131 

gram.  No  wonder  they  call  it  "the  chorus 
girl's  breakfast."  Among  other  things  I  did 
not  like  about  the  Lambs  was  that  irritating 
way  the  telephone  boy  had  of  asking  "Who's 
calling,  please."  Will  said  they  do  that  at  all 
Clubs. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

BY  this  time  I  had  my  own  little  coterie  and  I 
prided  myself  it  was  a  cosmopolitan  gathering 
which  graced  our  little  apartment  on  the  second 
and  third  Sundays  of  the  month.  There  was 
so  much  to  learn,  the  interests  were  so  diversi- 
fied that  I  eagerly  welcomed  members  of  other 
professions  than  our  own — if  they  were  worth 
while.  Our  sculptor  friend  brought  men  who 
had  travelled  in  remote  parts  of  the  world; they 
in  turn  brought  others.  We  numbered  several 
army  and  navy  officers,  a  German  scientist,  men 
and  women  journalists,  a  cartoonist  and  an 
artist,  women  engaged  in  Settlement  work  and 
the  quaint  old  French  professor  who  taught  me 
the  language.  When  we  could  overcome  his 
diffidence  he  was  a  mine  of  information.  He 
had  witnessed  the  Commune  of  Paris  and  was 
working  on  a  book  on  that  subject. 

It  is  an  interesting  study  to  divide  the  pas* 

tkhe  from  the  real.     The  time-killers  and  the 

curious  soon  dropped  out.     It  was  not  difficult 

to  limit  our  coterie  to  the  dimensions  of  ou* 

132 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND         133 

home.  I  could  not  but  contrast  my  simple  "at 
homes"  with  those  of  the  Dingleys.  We  had 
received  several  cards  for  their  Sundays  and 
Will  said  we  must  go  to  at  least  one  of  them. 
The  Dingleys  had  sprung  from  humble  begin- 
nings. They  were  jocosely  referred  to  as  the 
"ten,  twent'  and  thirt's." 

When  I  was  a  little  girl  in  short  skirts  they 
were  members  of  a  repertoire  company  which 
played  our  town  during  County  Fair  week.  The 
repertoire  comprised  such  good  old  timers  as 
The  Two  Orphans,  the  Danites,  East  Lynne, 
the  Silver  King,  Streets  of  New  York,  Camille 
and  The  Ti eke t-of -Leave  Man.  Mrs.  Dingley 
was  the  leading  lady  and  her  husband  the  util- 
ity man.  She  was  my  ideal  of  a  heroine — in 
those  days.  Her  hair  was  very  golden,  and  as 
the  weepy  heroine  she  wore  a  black  velvet  dress 
with  a  long  train.  That  black  velvet  (later 
experience  told  me  it  was  velveteen)  played 
many  parts.  It  was  a  princess,  and  for  evening 
wear  the  guimpe  had  only  to  be  removed.  Or, 
when  the  heroine  was  ailing,  as  becomes  a  per- 
secuted woman,  the  princess,  with  the  help  of  a 
full  front  panel,  was  converted  into  a  tea-gown. 
Again,  it  was  used  as  a  riding  habit,  draped  up 
on  one  side  and  topped  by  husband's  silk  hat 


134         MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

wound  round  with  a  veil.  With  a  good  deal  of 
crepe  drapery  from  the  bonnet,  the  same  gown 
passed  muster  as  widow's  weeds.  Mentally,  I 
resolved  that  when  I  became  an  actress  I  should 
have  just  such  a  prestidigital  gown  in  my  ward- 
robe. 

By  dint  of  hard  work  on  Mrs.  Dingley's  part 
and  unmitigated  nerve  on  the  part  of  her  hus- 
band they  had  finally  arrived  on  Broadway. 
They  had  recently  acquired  a  large  house  in 
the  older  part  of  the  city  and  I  understood  it 
was  Mrs.  Dingley's  idea  to  establish  a  salon. 
Certainly  she  was  successful  in  drawing  a 
crowd.  The  house  was  strikingly  furnished. 
There  was  much  gold  furniture  and  antique 
bric-a-brac;  canopied  beds  and  monogrammed 
counterpanes.  After  a  personally  conducted 
tour  of  the  house  and  an  enlightening  disserta- 
tion upon  the  real  worth  of  and  prices  paid  for 
the  fittings,  one  retained  a  confusing  sense  of 
having  had  an  exercise  in  mental  arithmetic. 

It  seemed  rather  catty  of  the  women  to  make 
fun  of  the  Dingleys  behind  their  back  and  at 
the  same  time  accept  their  hospitality.  Two 
smart  looking  women  whom  I  recognized  as 
members  of  Mrs.  D's.  company  appeared  to 
get  no  little  amusement  out  of  the  coat  of  arms 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          135 

on  Mrs.  Dingley's  bed.  "Why  didn't  they 
purloin  a  beer-stein,  quiescent  on  a  japanned 
tray?"  I  heard  one  say. 

"Or  a  Holstein  bull  rampant  on  a  field  of 
cotton,"  the  other  giggled. 

I  failed  to  grasp  the  significance  of  their  re- 
marks, though  I  saw  the  humour  in  their  allu- 
sion to  the  empty  book-shelves  which  lined  the 
walls  of  the  library.  "Why  not  buy  several 
hundred  feet  of  red-backed  books,  like  a  cer- 
tain politician  who  wanted  to  fill  up  the  wall 
space  in  his  library?" 

"Pshaw !  It  would  be  cheaper  to  use  props," 
scoffed  the  other. 

I  myself  thought  a  dictionary  and  a  few 
grammars  a  sensible  beginning,  as  Mrs.  Ding- 
ley  was  a  veritable  Mrs.  Malaprop.  Later  I 
committed  a  faux  pas,  though  I  meant  no  of- 
fense. In  my  effort  to  say  something  nice  to 
my  hostess  I  remarked  that  I  had  seen  her 
years  ago  during  the  early  days  of  her  strug- 
gle and  that  I  had  been  one  of  her  ardent  ad- 
mirers. The  way  she  said,  "Yes?"  with  the 
frosty  inflection  made  me  understand  she  did 
not  care  to  remember  her  beginnings. 

While  we  were  drinking  tea  out  of  priceless 
cups — the  history  of  which  was  being  retailed 


136         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

by  our  host — there  was  a  commotion  and  a 
craning  of  necks  toward  the  stairs.  The  hostess 
hurried  forward  to  greet  the  late  arrival. 
There  was  considerable  nudging  and  innuendo 
exchanged  as  a  small  pleasant-faced  man  with 
a  Van  Dyke  beard  entered  the  room.  Our 
host  greeted  him  jovially,  almost  boisterously. 
"Here  comes  the  king — here  comes  the  king!" 
hummed  the  two  actresses,  winking  signifi- 
cantly at  me.  There  was  a  buzz  of  voices 
while  Mrs.  Dingley  paraded  the  lion  of  the 
occasion  about  the  room  with  an  air  of  playful 
proprietorship.  The  little  man  had  a  penchant 
for  pretty  girls  and  flattery.  He  got  both. 
Everybody  fawned  on  him,  Mr.  Dingley  la- 
boured heroically  to  be  witty.  My  curiosity 
finally  drove  me  to  ask  my  neighbours  who  the 
little  man  was. 

"Is  he  a  manager,  or  a  producer,  or? — •?"  I 
whispered. 

There  was  a  peal  of  laughter  before  I  was 
answered. 

UO,  he's  a  producer,  all  right!  Why,  don't 
you  know  who  he  is?  He's  the  goose  that  laid 
the  golden  egg!"  taking  in  the  gold  furniture 
with  a  comprehensive  sweep  of  her  hand.  She 
lowered  her  voice  and  leaned  toward  me.  "He's 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          137 

Mr.  1"  I  recognized  the  name  of 

the  multimillionaire.  "Is  he?"  I  queried,  try- 
ing to  get  another  look  at  him. 

The  women  relapsed  into  their  confidences. 

"How  do  you  suppose  she  explains  it  to ?" 

calling  Mr.  Dingley  by  his  first  name.  The 
other  woman  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "She 
doesn't  have  to  explain;  money  talks." 

On  the  way  home  I  asked  Will  what  they 
meant. 

He  smiled  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"They  do  say  that  the  little  man  is  an  'angel.1  " 

"Well,  suppose  he  is?"  I  began  indignantly. 
"There  is  such  a  thing  as  clean-minded  men  of 
the  world :  patrons  of  art  without  ulterior  mo- 
tives. All  art  needs  fostering,  and  who  better 
able  to  help  the  climbers  than ?" 

Will  laid  his  hand  on  mine,  a  little  way  he 
had  when  he  wanted  to  reassure  me. 

"I  haven't  a  doubt  in  the  world  that  there 
are  clean-minded  men  of  means  without  'ulte- 
rior motives/  as  you  express  it.  I  also  believe 

that  hen's  teeth  are  rare." 

*  *  *  * 

There  were  other  near-salons  to  which  we 
were  invited.  Some  of  them  were  highly  tem- 
peramental gatherings.  Every  large  city  has 


i3 8          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

its  artistic  set,  but  New  York  may  safely  claim 
the  medal  for  the  half-baked  neurotics  who 
wallow  in  illicit  cults  which  they  sanctify  in  the 
name  of  art.  One  of  the  most  typical  and,  by 
the  same  token,  the  most  amusing  of  these  eso- 
toric  feasts  was  presided  over  by  a  lady-like 
creature  who  had  spent  some  time  in  the  Far 
East.  We  were  met  at  the  outer  portal  by  a 
jet  black,  down-South  negro  done  up  in  full 
Eastern  regalia.  An  air  of  mysticism  perme- 
ated even  the  boxcouches  against  the  wall.  They 
had  a  peculiar  "feel"  to  them  and  one  sank  into 
their  enfolding  depths  as  one  is  taught  to  sink 
into  the  arms  of  Nirvana.  It  must  have  been 
awful  for  short,  fat  persons  to  scramble  to 
their  feet,  after  once  being  beguiled  into  sitting 
on  these  couches.  The  mysticism  was  enhanced 
by  burning  incense,  shaded  lights,  draperies, 
and  the  host  himself,  who  received  us  in  East- 
ern garb,  resplendent  with  the  famous  jewels, 
a  gift  from  some  potentate  or  other.  We  were 
conducted  to  a  dais  where  the  guest  of  honour 
— an  oily,  complacent  Swami — received  us.  If 
we  were  pretty,  the  Swami  held  our  hands 
longer  than  the  amenities  of  good  society  de- 
mand. Some  of  the  guests  were  highly  sensi- 
tized beings.  Some  were  lean  like  Cassius; 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          139 

perhaps  they  "thought  too  much."  There  was 
a  preponderance  of  Greek  and  other  classic 
dresses,  over  un-classic  figures.  (Why  will 
doctors  condemn  the  corset?)  Hair-dressing 
was  simplicity  itself;  in  fact,  the  simplicity  sug- 
gested a  lick  and  a  promise.  Sometimes  there 
were  beads  woven  in  the  scrambled  mess. 

The  sockless  damsel  was  in  evidence  and 
nobility  was  represented  by  a  certain  antique 
Baroness  with  a  penchant  for  baby  blonde  hair. 
Affinity  hunters  abounded.  By  the  dreamy 
longing  of  their  watery  eyes  shall  ye  know 
them.  Some  there  were  who  had  made  several 
excursions  into  the  realms  of  free  and  easy 
love,  but  all,  all  had  returned  empty-handed, 
unsatisfied.  O  cruel  Fate!  And  so  they  go, 
hunting,  hunting.  .  .  . 

After  a  call  to  silence,  the  Swami  with  the 
ingratiating  smile  and  good  front  teeth  made 
an  address.  It  was  a  mystical,  tortuous,  ram- 
bling discourse  which  sounded  to  me  a  good 
deal  like  an  advocation  of  free  love.  He  told 
what  ailed  us;  he  said  we  didn't  love  enough. 
He  assured  us  it  was  O,  so  easy  to  get  our 
slice  of  the  wonderful,  all-pervading  ether  with 
which  we  were  saturated.  We  simply  didn't 
know  how  to  use  it.  He  had  come  to  teach  us : 


140          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

his  the  mission  to  prescribe  for  us.  Electricity 
had  been  harnessed,  why  not  love?  I  shud- 
dered when  I  thought  of  the  possibilities  of  a 
love-trust.  Of  course  it  would  be  cornered  by 
some  of  the  millionaires. 

After  the  address  everybody  clustered 
around  the  dispenser  of  Oriental  pearls.  The 
Swami  slipped  little  printed  matters  into  the 
palms  of  the  neophytes.  They  told  how  far- 
ther enlightenment  could  be  attained,  on  given 
days  at  given  hours  and  given  prices. 

Later  our  brute  element  was  fortified  by 
wafers  and  a  mysterious  punch.  I  felt  sorry 
for  the  late-comers  who  missed  the  intellectual 
feed  and  arrived  just  in  time  for  the  refresh- 
ments. Wafers  are  not  very  sustaining.  The 
punch  was  a  mysterious  and  subtle  concoction 
with  a  tendency  to  promulgate  the  tenets  of  the 
Swami's  new  religion.  Before  we  took  our 
leave  I  thought  the  eyes  of  the  new  disciples 
had  grown  more  languishing  and  were  consid- 
erably lit  up.  It  may  have  been,  of  course, 
that  the  Swami  had  taken  the  lid  off  a  few  vats 
of  his  cerulean  ether  which  was  too  highly  rare- 
fied for  those  present.  As  we  closed  the  door 
and  stepped  out  into  the  winter  night,  we  in- 
stinctively inhaled  the  cold  air,  which,  though 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          141 

i 

it  may  not  be  full  of  love,  is  full  of  common- 
sense  ozone. 

"When  Boston  people  want  to  be  naughty 
they  go  to  New  York."  Our  hostess  nodded 
sententiously  across  the  table  as  she  made  the 
statement. 

"Why  confine  it  to  Boston?  Why  not  Phila- 
delphia, Washington  or ?" 

"Because  I  don't  know  anything  about  those 
cities,  and  I  do  know  my  home  city,"  inter- 
rupted his  wife. 

"I  guess  you're  right,"  Mr.  Mollett  an- 
swered. "It's  the  same  spirit  which  keeps  alive 
Le  Rat  Mort,  or  Maxim's,  or  any  of  those 
resorts  in  Paris.  You  rarely  meet  a  Parisian 
at  these  show-places.  If  it  were  not  for  the 
foreigners — principally  Americans  and  Eng- 
lish— they'd  have  to  shut  up  shop." 

"That's  precisely  my  contention.  One  does 
things  in  Paris  or  New  York  one  would  never 
think  of  in  Boston." 

Will  had  met  Mr.  Mollett  at  a  Lambs' 
Gambol  one  Sunday  night  during  the  recent 
season  in  New  York.  They  had  taken  a  shine 
to  each  other,  to  use  Mr.  Mollett's  expression, 
and  had  exchanged  cards.  "I  liked  your  hus- 
band from  the  start,"  Mr.  Mollett  once  said  to 


142          MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

me.  "He's  not  a  bit  like  an  actor;  he's  nat- 
ural and  not  a  bit  of  a  poseur."  It  appears 
that  when  anyone  wants  to  pay  an  actor  a  par- 
ticularly high  compliment  he  tells  him  he  is  not 
a  bit  like  an  actor!  This  is  not  flattering  to 
the  rank  and  file  of  players,  who  labour  under 
the  misapprehension  that  to  be  effective  they 
must  act  on  and  off  the  stage. 

On  the  opening  night  of  the  following  sea- 
son in  Boston  Will  was  pleased  to  find  a 
card  from  Mr.  Mollett  and  a  note  from  his 
wife,  asking  whether  I  was  in  town;  if  so, 
would  I  waive  the  formality  of  a  call  and  join 
them  at  "beans"  on  Saturday  night  after  the 
performance. 

Mrs.  Mollett's  Saturday  suppers  were  as 
much  of  an  institution  as  the  beans  themselves. 
Our  hostess  was  a  bright,  intelligent  little 
woman  without  the  pretense  of  the  intellectual. 
Externally,  she  had  all  the  ear-marks  of  a  Bos- 
ton woman.  She  wore  the  practical  but  dis- 
figuring goloshes  of  a  Boston  winter  and  she 
carried  a  reticule.  Her  dress  might  have 
been  made  in  Paris,  but  it  had  a  true  New  Eng- 
land hang  to  it.  It  wasn't  a  component  part 
of  her;  it  was  a  thing  apart.  Her  skin  was 
rough  and  fretted  with  pin-wrinkles.  I  never 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          143 

saw  a  jar  of  cold  cream  on  her  dressing- 
table. 

The  Molletts  enjoyed  a  comfortable  income 
which  they  appeared  to  use  judiciously.  Their 
home  was  comfortable  and  in  good  taste.  Their 
library  was  a  treat;  not  merely  fine  bindings 
and  rare  editions.  The  volumes  showed  an 
intimate  acquaintance  with  the  owner.  By  the 
process  of  elimination  they  had  formed  a  se- 
lected chain  of  the  better  class  of  actors,  who 
found  a  warm  welcome  awaiting  them  when- 
ever they  played  Boston.  The  Molletts'  lean- 
ing toward  the  artistic  had  no  taint  of  the  free- 
and-easy  predilection.  The  element  of  illusion 
furnished  by  their  player  friends  was  precisely 
the  variety  needed  to  counteract  the  monotony 
of  their  daily  routine.  Both  sides  benefited  by 
the  exchange. 

Boston  was  the  first  stand  on  tour.  The 
second  season  had  opened  with  a  six  weeks' 
engagement  in  New  York  and  one,  two  or 
more  weeks  were  booked  in  the  larger  cities. 
The  original  company  was  advertised  and — 
rare  integrity — maintained.  Will  decided  that 
it  was  cheaper  to  carry  the  boy  and  me  on  the 
road  than  to  keep  up  two  establishments.  Luck- 
ily we  sublet  our  apartment.  I  was  for  send- 


144          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

ing  Experience  back  to  her  home,  though  I 
had  become  sincerely  attached  to  her  and  so 
had  Boy.  Will  declared  we  could  not  manage 
without  a  nurse.  I  assured  him  we  could. 
"You  don't  suppose  you  can  carry  that  Buster 
around  in  your  arms,  do  you?  And  wouldn't 
I  look  nice  climbing  on  and  off  trains,  and  com- 
ing into  hotels  with  a  baby  in  my  arms?  Pretty 
picture  for  a  matinee  idol!  No,  ma'am,  Ex- 
perience remains.  Besides,"  he  smiled  at  me, 
"a  nurse  and  a  valet  help  to  make  a  good 
front.  It'll  keep  the  management  guessing." 
Unfortunately  the  management  were  not 
the  only  ones  kept  guessing.  Good  hotels 
were  expensive  and  Will's  position  did  not  per- 
mit him  to  stop  at  any  other  kind.  It  worried 
me  a  great  deal  to  see  Will's  envelope  come 
in  on  Tuesday  and  scarcely  anything  left  on 
Wednesday  when  we  had  paid  the  bills.  I 
suspected,  too,  that  Will  had  some  debts  hang- 
ing over  from  last  season.  I  knew  he  had 
drawn  on  the  management  during  the  summer. 
We  foolishly  took  a  cottage  at  Allenhurst  on 
the  sea,  where  we  spent  our  holidays.  The 
week-end  parties  proved  expensive.  It  was 
easily  accessible  to  New  York  and  I  never 
knew  how  popular  Will  was  with  the  profes- 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          145 

sion  until  that  summer.  I  regretted  we  had 
not  gone  back  to  the  farm  in  the  Catskills. 

I  saw  a  great  deal  more  of  Will  on  the  road 
than  I  had  in  New  York.  There  was  no 
Lambs'  Club  and,  though  Will  had  guest-cards 
to  clubs  in  various  cities,  there  was  not  the  lure 
of  intimate  association.  We  took  long  walks 
together,  browsed  in  the  book-shops,  visited 
public  buildings  such  as  the  library  in  Boston, 
and  sometimes  lunched  or  "tead"  with  friends. 
Will  did  not  care  to  accept  invitations  to  din- 
ner; he  said  it  made  him  "logey"  to  dine  late 
and  interfered  with  his  evening  performances. 
Altogether  we  came  nearer  to  the  old  intimacy 
and  comradeship  than  we  had  known  for  sev- 
eral years.  At  Christmas  time  we  planned  the 
boy's  first  tree.  We  believed  he  was  now  old 
enough  to  appreciate  it.  Santa  Claus  now  be- 
came a  name  to  conjure  with;  it  acted  as  a 
bribe  to  good  behaviour  or  a  threat  of  punish- 
ment. 

Will  and  I  went  shopping  together.  The 
big  toy-shops  proved  the  most  fascinating 
things  in  the  world.  We  spent  hours  looking 
at  the  wonders  of  toy-land  which  the  present- 
day  child  enjoys.  Will  said  it  made  him  feel 
like  a  boy  and  surely  it  brought  out  all  the 


146          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

youth  in  his  nature.  His  eyes  would  snap  and 
sparkle  with  delight  over  a  miniature  railway 
with  practicable  engine  and  carriages,  electric 
head-lights,  block  signals  and  the  like.  "Gee ! 
What  wouldn't  I  have  given  for  an  outfit  like 
that  when  I  was  a  kid!"  he  would  exclaim. 
As  for  me,  I  couldn't  make  up  my  mind  which 
I  enjoyed  the  most;  the  pretty  children  who 
crowded  the  shop  or  the  toys  they  came  to  see. 
We  made  several  visits  to  Santa  Claus  land 
without  being  able  to  decide  what  would  best 
please  Boy.  Experience  advised  us  to  have 
him  make  his  own  choice.  When  Experience 
took  him  for  a  tour  of  the  shops  he  decided 
upon  everything  in  the  place.  Suddenly  the 
whole  world  faded  into  insignificance :  "Se- 
nyder!"  he  stuttered,  pointing  imperiously  to 
a  dog  whose  breed  seemed  as  indeterminate  as 
the  prototype.  All  dogs  were  Snyders  to  Boy, 
but  perhaps  the  perpetual  motion  of  the  tail 
which  wagged  automatically  reminded  him 
most  strongly  of  the  original.  It  did  no  good 
to  tell  him  that  Santa  Claus  would  bring  Sny- 
der  down  the  chimney.  Boy  had  his  own  ideas 
about  fairies  and  their  ilk.  He  refused  to 
leave  the  shop  without  the  dog.  Needless  to 
say  the  dog  went  home  with  us.  Will  never 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          147 

could  endure  Boy's  shrieks.  But,  in  extenua- 
tion, let  it  be  said  that  not  one  of  the  toys  Boy 
found  grouped  about  his  tree  on  Christmas 
morning — and  their  name  was  legion — gave 
him  the  joy  he  found  in  the  mongrel  pup.  Miss 
Burton  sent  a  box  from  far-off  San  Francisco, 
where  she  was  playing.  The  Chinese  dolls 
interested  him  for  a  moment,  but  his  heart  was 
true  to  Snyder.  He  slept  with  him,  shared 
his  food  with  him,  sobbed  out  his  childish  grief 
with  Snyder  in  his  arms,  and  refused  to  part 
with  his  faithful  friend  even  when  old  age 
robbed  him  of  his  woolly  coat  and  shiny  eyes. 
The  star  gave  a  party  on  Christmas  Eve. 
When  the  curtain  went  down  on  the  last  act, 
the  applause  was  choked  off  by  the  flashing  on 
of  the  house  lights.  The  stage-manager  gave 
the  order  to  strike,  and  in  a  short  time  the 
stage  was  clear.  The  carpenters  then  put  to- 
gether the  improvised  banquet  board — great 
long  planks  of  lumber  resting  upon  saw-horses. 
From  the  iron  landing  of  the  first  tier  of  spiral 
stairs  upon  which  Will's  dressing-room  gave  I 
watched  the  caterer's  men  lay  the  table.  I  had 
spent  the  latter  part  of  the  evening  in  the  cubby 
hole — a  rare  occurrence,  since  I  seldom  went 
behind  the  scenes  except  with  friends  of  Will's 


148          MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

who  had  attended  the  performance  and  who 
wanted  to  see  what  the  back  of  the  stage  looked 
like. 

Shortly  before  twelve  o'clock  the  members 
of  the  company  and  a  few  outside  guests  as- 
sembled on  the  stage — where  they  were  re- 
ceived by  the  star-hostess.  In  the  midst  of  the 
chatter  the  lights  went  out.  At  first  everyone 
thought  it  an  accident  until  a  bell  in  the  dis- 
tance chimed  the  witching  hour.  As  the  last 
stroke  died  away  a  faint  jingle  of  sleigh  bells 
wafted  across  the  air.  Nearer  and  louder 
they  came,  interspersed  with  the  snap  of  a 
whip.  A  great  shaft  of  light  from  above  shot 
obliquely  across  the  stage.  From  out  of  the 
clouds,  as  it  seemed,  a  full-fledged  Santa  Claus 
descended  like  a  flying  machine.  With  the  aid 
of  a  little  "sneaky"  music  furnished  by  the 
orchestra  and  the  faithful  spot-light  which  dog- 
ged his  very  footsteps,  Santy  placed  the  huge 
tree  in  the  centre  of  the  table  and  unloaded  his 
pack.  With  many  a  grotesque  antic  he  sur- 
veyed his  labour  of  love  and  finally,  having 
sampled  the  contents  of  a  decanter  which 
graced  the  table,  he  rubbed  his  much  padded 
pouch  in  satisfaction,  laughed  merrily,  shouted 
a  "merry  Christmas  to  you  all,"  and  disap- 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          149 

peared  into  the  clouds.  The  effect  was  so  be- 
witching and  so  eerie  that  old  Kris  received  a 
spontaneous  "hand"  on  his  exit. 

I  thought  of  Boy  and  how  much  he  would 
have  enjoyed  the  scene.  Myriad  little  lights 
twinkled  like  stars  upon  the  wonderful  trees. 
A  warm,  red  glow  poured  from  imaginary  fire- 
places off  stage.  To  the  accompaniment  of 
ohs !  and  ahs !  and  a  merry  potpourri  from  the 
orchestra  we  took  our  seats  at  table.  I  am 
sure  any  audience  would  gladly  have  paid  a 
premium  for  tickets  to  this  special  perform- 
ance. 

The  supper  proved  to  be  an  eight-course 
dinner.  There  was  everything  from  nut- 
brown  turkey  to  hot  mince  pie.  The  drink- 
ables were  varied  and  plentiful.  I  noticed  that 
after  the  third  or  fourth  course  everybody  was 
telling  everybody  else  what  a  good  actor  he 
or  she  was.  It  developed  into  a  veritable  mu- 
tual admiration  society.  Will  kicked  me  under 
the  table  several  times  when  the  character  man 
told  him  what  a  good  actor  he  was;  it  was 
common  property  that  the  character  man 
"knocked"  Will  behind  his  back.  The  tall, 
good-looking  girl  I  had  noticed  at  rehear- 
sals passed  around  a  new  diamond  pendant 


150         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

she  had  just  received  from  her  friend  in 
New  York. 

"He's  just  crazy  about  you,  ain't  he?" 
chaffed  one  of  the  actors.  The  good-looking 
girl  laughed  and  winked. 

"He  sure  is,"  she  answered,  "and  I  never 
even  gave  him  as  much  as  that,"  measuring  off 
an  infinitesimal  speck  of  her  thumb  nail. 

A  shout  of  laughter  greeted  her  remark.  A 
little  later  when  she  got  warmed  up  she  made 
eyes  at  Will  across  the  table  and  threw  him 
violets  from  her  huge  corsage  bouquet.  "Ev'ry 
matinee  day  I  send  thee  violets,"  she  para- 
phrased in  song,  the  significance  of  which  was 
lost  on  me  until  some  days  later. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  dinner  the  packages 
were  opened.  Each  memento  was  accompanied 
by  a  limerick  hitting  off  the  idiosyncrasies  of 
the  recipient,  who  was  asked  to  read  it  aloud. 
Whoever  composed  the  limericks  was  well  paid 
for  sitting  up  o'  nights,  for  they  caused  a  deal 
of  merriment  even  if  they  were  not  entirely 
free  from  sting.  After  dinner  there  was  vaude- 
ville. The  star  gave  some  imitations  of  a  cafe 
chantant  which  brought  down  the  house.  The 
musical  director  had  composed  a  skit  which  he 
called  "Very  Grand  Opera."  The  theme 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          151 

hinged  on  a  leave-taking  of  one  or  more  char- 
acters from  the  other.  The  book  consisted  of 
one  word;  farewell.  I  had  never  realized  how 
long-winded  the  farewells  of  opera  are  until 
I  heard  the  parody.  The  humour  of  it  quite 
spoiled  the  tender  duos,  trios  and  choruses  of 
the  genuine  article. 

Dear  old  Mr.  and  Mrs. contributed  a 

cake-walk.  No  one  suspected  the  grumpy  old 
gentleman  to  have  so  much  ginger  in  him.  A 
good  old  Virginia  reel  and  "Tucker"  limbered 
everybody  into  action. 

Before  we  dispersed,  old  Santa  Claus — im- 
personated by  one  of  the  walking  gentlemen — 
again  donned  his  beard  and  buckskin  and  ac- 
companied by  a  noisy  crew  carried  the  great 
tree  to  the  boarding-house  where  the  child- 
actress  of  the  company  was  staying.  At  the 
street  end  of  the  alley  which  led  from  the 
stage-entrance  a  big  burly  policeman  stopped 
them;  they  were  noisy  to  be  sure.  But  even 
the  officer  laughed  when  Santy  touched  him  on 
the  arm  and  in  a  "tough"  dialect  asked  him, 
"Say  Bill,  do  youse  believe  in  fairies?" 

If  Will  had  any  experiences  in  Boston  only 
one  came  under  my  notice;  rather,  it  was 
forced  upon  me.  It  was  during  the  second 


152         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

week  of  the  engagement  that  Will  began  to 
bring  me  violets.  Now,  he  had  not  shown  me 
this  attention  for  several  years.  I  was  too 
much  flattered  at  the  time  to  notice  that  the 
flowers  always  came  on  matinee  days,  after  the 
performance.  Will  generally  took  a  walk  af- 
ter a  matinee.  He  said  it  refreshed  him  for 
the  evening  performance.  He  would  come  in, 
glowing  from  the  exercise,  simply  radiating 
health  and  energy.  I  knew  what  time  to  ex- 
pect him  and  I  would  sit  listening  for  the  ele- 
vator to  stop  on  our  floor.  I  knew  Will's  step 
the  minute  he  came  down  the  hall.  When  he 
opened  the  door  I  instinctively  sniffed  the  fresh 
air  he  brought  in  with  him.  I  liked  to  feel  his 
cold  cheek  against  mine  ....  and  to  hear  him 
puff  and  growl  to  amuse  Boy  as  he  pulled  off 
his  heavy  coat.  He  was  irresistible.  The  vio- 
lets came  in  a  purple  box  with  the  imprint  of 
the  florist  in  gold  letters.  The  first  time  he 
brought  them  he  set  the  box  on  the  table  with- 
out handing  them  to  me.  One  of  my  weak- 
nesses is  flowers. 

"What's  this?"  I  asked,  pouncing  upon  the 
box. 

"Open  it  and  see,"  he  answered  with  one  of 
his  quizzical  sidelong  glances. 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          153 

"For  me?"  I  asked  a  little  dubiously.  I  lost 
no  time  in  opening  the  box.  If  the  shadow  of 
a  thought  that  an  admirer  of  WilFs  had  sent 
him  the  flowers  flitted  across  my  mind  it  was 
lost  in  Will's  smile  as  he  answered, 

"For  my  best  girl." 

I  buried  my  face  in  their  cool  depths.  "Vio- 
lets! O,  the  beauties!  I  like  the  single  va- 
riety best,  don't  you,  Will?  They're  so  fresh 
and  woodsy."  Then  my  conscience  smote  me. 
Violets  are  expensive  this  time  of  year.  "Will 
— weren't  they  horribly  expensive?"  Just  the 
same  I  was  pleased  to  death — as  I  had  heard 
matinee  girls  say — and  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
forego  something  I  needed  to  offset  Will's 
flattering  extravagance.  I  nursed  and  tended 
those  violets  until  the  next  matinee  day  came 
round.  When  they  faded  I  pressed  them  be- 
tween blotting  paper,  intending  when  I  got 
back  home  to  put  them  away  with  other  flow- 
ers Will  had  given  me 

It  was  on  Tuesday,  the  day  after  Christ- 
mas. I  had  gone  out  with  Mrs.  Mollett  to 
tea  at  a  woman's  club.  The  violets  Will  had 
brought  me  after  the  Christmas  matinee  were 
reinforced  by  some  lilies  of  the  valley.  The 
huge  bouquet  looked  particularly  smart  against 


154         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

my  fur  coat.  Mrs.  Mollett  and  I  were  late  in 
getting  back.  I  felt  sure  I  should  miss  Will, 
who  was  going  out  to  dinner  with  some  friends 
at  a  club.  As  I  passed  through  the  hall  to  the 
lift  a  bell-boy  overtook  me.  He  told  me  there 
was  someone  in  the  parlour  waiting  to  see  me. 
I  asked  for  a  card  but  none  had  been  sent. 
Wondering  who  could  be  calling  on  me — I  had 
so  few  acquaintances  in  Boston — and  anticipat- 
ing a  pleasant  surprise  I  followed  the  boy  to 
the  parlour  on  the  second  floor.  It  was  a  large 
room  and  I  stopped  in  the  portiered  doorway 
half  expectantly.  The  only  occupant  of  the 
room  was  a  tall  person — whether  woman  or 
girl  I  could  not  discern.  She  stood  with  her 
back  to  the  door,  looking  out  the  window.  As 
she  glanced  over  her  shoulder  with  no  sign 
of  recognition  I  turned  to  go.  The  bell-boy, 
however,  had  waited  behind  me.  "That's 
the  lady  who  asked  for  you  over  there." 
He  approached  the  girl,  who  turned  tim- 
idly. 

"You  wanted  to  see  Mrs.  Hartley,  didn't 
you?  This  is  she." 

It  was  probably  the  surprise  of  hearing  cor- 
rect English  from  the  lips  of  a  bell-boy  which 
diverted  my  attention  for  a  second.  When  I 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          155 

looked  at  the  visitor  I  saw  that  she  had  flushed 
and  was  overcome  with  confusion. 

"There  is — there  appears  to  be  some  mis- 
take," she  stammered,  addressing  herself  to 
the  retreating  boy  and  averting  my  gaze.  "I 
asked  to  see  Mr.  Hartley — Mr.  William  Hart- 
ley," she  called  after  the  boy,  though  her  voice 
was  scarcely  audible.  She  looked  toward  the 
door  in  a  bewildered  manner  as  if  her  only  de- 
sire was  to  get  away.  There  was  something 
so  distressing,  so  pathetic  about  her  embarrass- 
ment; not  a  modicum  of  savoir  faire  or  bluff 
to  help  her  out.  I  found  myself  saying  in  a 
kindly  tone  that  only  added  oil  to  the  flames: 
"I  am  Mrs.  Hartley;  Mrs.  William  Hartley. 
Is  there  anything  I  can  do?" 

For  a  full  minute  we  stood  and  looked  at 
each  other.  Under  the  full  light,  which  the 
boy  had  switched  on  as  he  went  out,  her  face 
and  figure  were  sharply  limned.  A  tall  woman 
has  always  the  best  of  it  in  any  controversy, 
though  I  am  sure  my  vis-a-vis  did  not  realize 
her  advantage.  If  her  mind  was  as  confused 
as  her  face  indicated  she  was  to  be  pitied.  She 
was  not  merely  a  plain  woman;  she  was  the 
epitome  of  plainness.  Nature  had  not  given 
her  a  single  redeeming  feature;  there  was  not 


156          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

even  a  hint  of  sauciness  to  the  upturned  nose; 
not  a  speculative  quirk  to  the  corner  of  the 
mouth  or  a  fetching  droop  to  the  eyelids  which 
sometimes  illuminates  the  plainest  of  faces. 
Perhaps  she  realized  the  niggardliness  of  her 
gifts.  There  was  an  evident  attempt  at  primp- 
ing. Her  hat  sat  uneasily  upon  a  head  unac- 
customed to  the  hair-dresser's  art.  The  shoes, 
too,  I  felt,  were  painful:  they  were  so  new 
and  the  heels  so  high,  and  unstable — a  radical 
departure  from  the  commonsense  last  which 
was  as  much  a  component  part  of  her  as  the 
feet  themselves.  I  visualized  her  home,  her 

life  and  her  commonplace  associates 

the  eternal  illusion  of  the  stage Will's 

magnetism,  combined  with  the  perfections  and 
never-failing  nobility  of  the  stage  hero.  .  .  . 
I  saw  it  all  as  clearly  as  I  saw  the  strained, 
vari-expressioned  face  before  me.  All  this  in 
a  brief  fleeting  moment.  I  smiled  encourag- 
ingly. Her  eyes  met  mine,  then  wavered  and 
drooped,  and  drooping  rested  upon  the  violets 

— and  we  both  understood 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  I  said,  leading  the 
way  to  a  divan  with  the  idea  of  easing  the 
situation.  "Do  have  a  pillow! — there,  is  that 
more  comfortable?  These  sofas  seem  never 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          157 

to  fit  in  to  one's  back I'm  sorry  Mr. 

Hartley  is  not  in.  Usually  he  is  in  at  this  hour, 
but  to-night  he  is  dining  out.  I  know  he  will 
be  sorry  to  have  missed  you,  for  I  am  sure 
he  wants  to  thank  you  in  person  for  the  lovely 
flowers.  Yes,  he  told  me  all  about  it  and  we 
both  appreciated  your  sweetness  in  sending 
them.  I  hope  Mr.  Hartley  wrote  and  properly 
thanked  you," — I  rattled  on,  hoping  to  give  her 
time  to  recover  herself.  "He  is,  as  a  rule, 
quite  punctilious  in  these  matters,  but  with  the 
holidays  and  the  extra  matinees — "  I  finished 
with  an  expressive  shrug.  There  was  a  dis- 
heartening silence. 

"I  think  I  must  be  going,"  she  faltered  at 
last,  waiting  for  me  to  rise.  "I'm  afraid  I've 
kept  you  too  long.  .  .  .  You've  been  very 
kind.  ...  I  hope  you  haven't  been  shocked 
by  ...  by  ...  the  unconventional  way  I 
..."  Her  speech  came  in  jerks. 

"Not  at  all,"  I  answered,  jumping  in  and  an- 
ticipating my  cue.  "Not  at  all!"  I  reiterated, 
injecting  more  warmth  in  the  confirmation  than 
I  intended.  I  walked  with  her  to  the  elevator. 
"I'm  sorry  it  is  so  late  or  I  would  ask  you  to 
stop  for  a  cup  of  tea.  But  you  will  come  again, 
won't  you? — perhaps  you'll  telephone  me  one 


158          MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

morning — not  too  early "  I  laughed  a 

little  as  I  pressed  the  button — "we're  not  early 
risers,  and  we'll  arrange  a  time  when  Mr. 
Hartley  can  be  with  us.  I  want  you  to  meet 
the  boy — O,  yes,  we've  got  a  baby,  too!  Of 
course,  we  think  him  the  most  wonderful  baby 
in  the  world.  Aren't  parents  a  conceited  lot?" 
...  I  pressed  her  limp  hand  and  smiled  good- 
byes as  the  lift  bore  her  out  of  sight. 

Then  the  smile  went  out  of  me.  I  felt 
angry  with  myself:  I  felt  I  had  overdone  it. 
What  was  the  woman  to  me  that  I  should  ex- 
ert myself  to  put  her  at  ease  with  herself? 
She  was  but  one  of  the  silly  creatures  who 
"chase"  the  actor  and  pander  to  his  vanity. 
I  regretted  the  impulse  which  prompted  me 
to  ask  her  to  tea.  Truly,  I  had  made  a  fool 
of  myself.  ...  At  least,  I  had  prevented  her 
from  making  a  farther  fool  of  herself — and 
of  me.  .  .  . 

I  went  to  my  room  but  did  not  turn  on  the 
light  for  fear  of  attracting  Experience,  whose 
room  was  across  the  court.  She  was  probably 
waiting  for  me.  I  wanted  to  be  alone.  I  re- 
moved the  violets  from  my  coat.  My  first 
impulse  was  to  throw  them  out  the  window; 
then  I  thought  better  of  it — and  of  her.  They 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          159 

represented  a  woman's  illusions — no,  two 
women's  illusions.  .  .  .  Will  had  deliberately 
fooled  me;  even  Miss  Merdell,  the  tall  good- 
looker,  knew  he  was  fooling  me.  That  was 
what  she  meant  when  she  chaffed  him  about 
the  violets  at  the  Christmas  party.  Perhaps 
it  was  not  of  great  consequence,  but,  does  a 
woman  ever  forgive  a  man  for  wounding  her 
self-respect?  .  .  . 

I  did  not  look  at  Will  when  I  told  him  of 
the  visitor.  He  extricated  himself  gracefully. 
He  said  he  thought  my  perspicacity  would  have 
made  me  tumble  to  the  truth  and  when  I  didn't 
he  concluded  it  was  a  shame  to  put  me  wise. 
And,  after  all,  what  did  it  matter?  He  had 
brought  the  flowers  home  to  me  when  it  was 
an  easy  matter  to  have  turned  them  over  to 
the  extra  girls.  .  .  . 

Miss  Gorr — that  was  her  name — came  to 
tea;  in  fact,  she  came  several  times.  Will  de- 
clared she  was  in  a  fair  way  of  becoming  a 
bore. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  turn  her  loose 
on  me,"  he  expostulated.  "I'm  willing  to  give 
her  photographs  and  advice  but  I  don't  want 
to  be  seen  about  with  a  freak  like  that!" 

I    caught    myself    wondering — and    I    was 


160          MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

ashamed  of  the  thought — whether  Will  would 
have  been  bored  were  Miss  Gorr  not  so  hope- 
lessly plain.  Alice  was  smart  and  there  had 
been  others  and  would  probably  be  more  to 
come.  I  reached  the  point  where  I  could  shrug 
my  shoulders  indifferently.  It  was  all  a  part 
of  the  game  and  I  was  learning  to  play  it.  ... 


CHAPTER  IX 

FOLLOWING  Boston,  the  company  played  Phila- 
delphia, Baltimore  and  Pittsburgh.  Each  city 
has  its  distinguishing  characteristics,  but  certain 
types  are  to  be  found  all  over  the  country. 
There  is  always  the  "fly"  married  woman 
hanging  about  hotel  lobbies,  lying  in  wait  for 
the  actor  or  any  dapper  visitor  who,  like  her- 
self, is  seeking  diversion.  She  drops  in  for  a 
cock-tail  or  a  high-ball  and  looks  things  over. 
She  has  a  sign  manual  of  her  own.  The  head- 
waiters  know  her  and  wink  significantly  when 
she  comes  in  with  her  friends.  These  women 
are  not  prostitutes  in  the  general  acceptance  of 
the  word.  They  are  products  of  our  leisure 
class.  Their  husbands  are  business  or  profes- 
sional men  in  good  standing.  With  comfort- 
able, even  luxurious  homes,  or  a  stagnant  life 
in  a  modern  hotel,  time  hangs  heavily  upon 
their  hands.  They  have  no  intellectual  pur- 
suits other  than  bridge  and  the  "best  seller." 
They  pander  to  their  worst  desires  and  wallow 
161 


1 62          MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

in  their  alcoholic-fed  passions.  These  are  the 
stall-feds;  the  drones;  the  wasters;  the  menace 
to  the  womanhood  of  America.  These  are 
they  who  are  grist  to  the  divorce  mills;  who 
clog  the  yellow  press  with  prurient  tales  of 
passion;  who  stigmatize  innocent  children  and 
handicap  them  even  before  birth;  who  breed 
and  interbreed  with  such  unconcern  that  it  is 
indeed  a  wise  child  that  knows  its  own  father. 
And  in  the  end,  when  the  Nemesis  of  faded 
charms  overtakes  them,  the  army  of  harlots  is 
swelled. 

The  "neglected  wife"  has  become  a  hoary 
old  joke.  It  is  worked  to  death.  My  hus- 
band is  responsible  for  the  statement  that  in 
nine  cases  out  of  ten  women  use  this  excuse 
to  condone  their  own  infidelity.  "My  husband 
doesn't  understand  me;  he  knows  nothing  but 
business,  business,  business.  He  doesn't  real- 
ize there  is  another  side  to  my  nature  which  is 
utterly  starved."  Or,  "My  husband  is  inter- 
ested elsewhere.  What  am  I  to  do?  For  the 
sake  of  the  children  I  don't  want  a  divorce, 
and  I  am  too  proud  to  let  him  see  how  I  feel  it. 
I  am  only  human." 

That  there  are  neglected  wives  a-plenty  is  a 
truism.  But  it  is  a  spurious  brand  of  pride 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          163 

which  sends  a  woman  roaming,  seeking  the 
consolation  of  the  Toms,  Dicks  and  Harrys  of 
the  world.  As  for  the  children,  there  are 
greater  evils  than  divorce.  The  influence  of  a 
house  divided  against  itself,  the  surcharged  at- 
mosphere of  deceit  and  degrading  quarrels 
cannot  fail  to  impregnate  a  child's  mind,  and 
probably  at  a  time  when  character  is  being 
formed. 

It  is  a  lucky  thing  for  the  honour  of  the 
family  that  the  actor  is  not  less  scrupulous. 
"They  who  kiss  and  run  away  may  live  to  kiss 
another  day"  is  probably  indicative  of  the 
worst  of  his  peccadillos.  He  takes  the  goods 
the  gods  provide  and  credits  so  much  popu- 
larity unto  his  irresistible  self.  If  occasionally 
he  is  "caught  with  the  goods'*  it  makes  good 
copy  for  the  yellows.  Incidentally  it  adver- 
tises the  actor.  The  woman  pays  the  piper. 
"What's  sauce  for  the  goose  is  sauce  for  the 
gander"  is  likely  to  remain  a  nebulous  suppo- 
sition. 

*  *  *  * 

There  is  only  one  Chicago.  Other  cities — 
Pittsburgh  and  Cincinnati  notably — may  be 
commonplace  or  vulgar,  but  Chicago  is  the 
epitome  of  commonplace  vulgarity.  It  struck 


164         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

me  forcibly  as  I  looked  over  the  first-night 
audience.  The  men  are  commonplace;  the 
women  vulgar.  The  women  impress  one  as 
ex-waitresses  from  cheap  eating  houses  or 
sales-"ladies"  who  have  married  well.  Few 
of  the  male  population  appear  to  own  a  dress- 
suit.  The  women  wear  ready-made  suits  with 
picture  hats  and  a  plentiful  sprinkling  of  gaudy 
jewelry.  Some  of  them  "make-up"  atrociously. 
Their  manners  are  as  breezy  as  the  wind  from 
the  lake  and  they  "make  you  one  of  them"  the 
first  time  you  meet.  If  there  is  a  cultured  set 
in  Chicago  the  actor  never  meets  them ;  it  prob- 
ably resides  in  Chicago  through  force  of  cir- 
cumstances, not  through  choice.  The  middle 
class  is  super-commonplace.  The  smart  set 
isn't  smart ;  only  fast  and  loose.  Chicago  is  a 
good  "show-town."  It  might  be  better  if 
managers  kept  their  word  to  send  out  the  orig- 
inal companies.  The  Western  metropolis  re- 
sents a  slight  to  its  dignity. 

Will's  management,  therefore,  played  a  trump 
card  when  it  sent  the  New  York  production  and 
players.  The  house  was  sold  out  for  weeks 
in  advance.  It  was  evidenced  on  the  opening 
night  that  Will  had  left  a  good  impression  in 
Chicago  from  former  visits.  He  received  a 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          165 

hand  on  his  entrance.  When  a  supporting 
actor  is  thus  remembered  it  proves  his  popu- 
larity. 

After  the  performance  we  went  to  the  Col- 
lege Inn  with  some  friends  of  Will's.  Every- 
body who  is  anybody  goes  to  that  ill-ventilated 
hole  below  stairs;  one  gets  a  sort  of  revue  of 
the  town's  follies.  Chicago  is  hopelessly  pro- 
vincial. There  is  a  profound  intimacy  with 
other  people's  affairs.  Such  purveyors  of  pri- 
vacy as  the  Clubfellow  and  Town  Topics  must 
find  it  no  easy  matter  to  get  copy  which  is  not 
already  common  property,  with  the  edge  taken 
off.  Our  host  and  hostess  of  the  evening  kept 
up  a  running  fire  of  gossip  concerning  the  peo- 
ple about  us. 

At  a  table  near-by  sat  a  gross  looking  woman 
with  a  combative  eye.  Her  escort  was  a  pli- 
able, colourless  youth,  who,  I  assumed,  was  her 
son.  This  person  was  on  bowing  terms  with 
many  of  the  habitues  of  the  Inn.  A  number 
of  actors  lingered  at  her  table  and  laughed 
effectively  at  her  sallies.  When  Will  told  me 
she  was  a  certain  female  critic  on  a  Chicago 
newspaper  I  understood  the  homage  paid  her. 
I  did  not  undertand,  however,  her  reason  for 
marrying  the  youth  I  assumed  was  her  son. 


1 66          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

Our  hostess  said  something  about  the  "grate- 
ful age"  which  I  didn't  understand.  The  lady 
critic  wrote  with  a  venomous  pen  when  mood 
or  grudge  impelled  her.  Many  an  actor 
writhed  under  her  lashes.  It  was  rumoured, 
however,  that  her  bark  was  a  great  deal  worse 
than  her  bite  and  that  if  one  approached  her 
"in  the  right  way"  "she  would  eat  out  of  your 
hand." 

Ever  since  a  person  revelling  under  a  eupho- 
nious nom  de  plume,  which  recalls  to  mind  the 
romantic  days  of  Robin  Hood,  perverted  the 
function  of  dramatic  criticism,  imitators  have 
sprung  up  all  over  the  country.  "Imitation  is 
the  truest  flattery."  To  be  caustically  funny 
at  the  expense  of  truth,  to  deal  in  impudent 
personalia,  to  lose  one's  dignity  in  belittling 
that  of  others  is  the  construction  of  the  gentle 
art  of  criticism  which  American  reviewers  re- 
serve unto  themselves. 

WilPs  friends  were  a  convivial  lot.  Before 
the  evening  was  over  our  party  had  been  con- 
siderably augmented.  Each  newcomer  added 
another  round  of  drinks.  "Have  one  with 
me"  is  a  strictly  American  characteristic.  When 
we  broke  up  I  had  a  handful  of  cards  and  a 
confused  list  of  tea,  dinner  and  supper  engage- 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          167 

merits.  Fortunately  I  was  not  the  only  one  to 
get  mixed.  Several  of  the  whilom  hostesses 
simplified  matters  by  forgetting  the  invitations 
they  had  extended. 

While  we  were  waiting  for  the  automobile 
one  of  the  women  chaffed  Will  in  the  following 
manner:  "Why,  you  sly,  handsome  pup!  You 
never  told  me  you  were  married  when  you 
were  here  before." 

"I  supposed  you  knew,"  was  Will's  re- 
sponse. 

"O,  you  did!  Um!  I  never  say  anything 
about  being  married,  either,  when  I  go  away 
for  a  lark.  .  .  .  Never  mind,  I'll  forgive  you 
if  you'll  call  me  up.  Where  are  you  stopping? 
How  long  is  your  wife  going  to  be  in  town?" 
The  rest  was  drowned  in  the  approach  of  the 

car.  .~'^'^&s&&& 

We  did  not  go  to  Mamma  Reward's  this 
time.  Heretofore  when  Will  played  Chicago 
we  had  lived  at  a  theatrical  boarding  house 
kept  by  a  dear  little  old  Scotch  lady.  Her's 
was  one  of  the  few  good  ones  throughout  the 
country.  Unfortunately  one  had  to  take  a 
long  trolley  ride  to  reach  her  house  and  Will's 
performances  ended  late.  Then,  too,  he  had 
heard  that  the  table  had  gone  off  and  that  the 


1 68          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

service  was  inadequate.  I  imagine,  however, 
that  Will  felt  he  had  outgrown  the  boarding- 
house  days.  He  decided  upon  a  family  hotel 
on  the  north  side. 

During  the  week  I  called  on  Mamma  Hew- 
ard  and  took  Boy  with  me.  It  was  the  first 
time  she  had  seen  him  and  she  raved  over  him 
sufficiently  to  satisfy  even  a  young  mother's 
vanity.  She  enquired  after  Will  and  had  kept 
in  touch  with  his  progress.  She  had  always 
t)een  fond  of  him  and  had  dubbed  him  Bobby 
Burns,  whom  he  somewhat  resembled.  I  saw 
she  felt  hurt  by  our  apparent  desertion  and 
tried  to  assure  her  that  we  should  be  much 
happier  and  more  comfortable  with  her;  that 
if  it  were  not  for  the  distance  from  the  thea- 
tre  

The  dear  little  old  lady  patted  my  hand  as 
if  to  spare  me  further  dissemblance. 

"That's  the  excuse  they  all  give,  but  it's  no 
farther  than  ever  it  was  and  the  theatres  are 
as  near  as  ever  they  were,"  she  said  sadly,  the 
Scotch  burr  falling  musically  upon  the  ear.  "It 
isn't  that.  .  .  .  They're  forgetting  me  now 
they're  getting  up  in  the  world.  It  didn't  use 
to  be  too  far  when  they  couldn't  pay  more 
than  eight  or  ten  dollars  a  week  for  their  board 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          169 

.  .  .  and  the  little  suppers  Mamma  had  wait- 
ing for  them  after  the  theatre.  .  .  ." 

She  sighed  but  there  was  no  trace  of  bitter- 
ness. "It's  what  you  must  expect  when  you 
get  old  and  worn  out.  .  .  .  It's  the  way  of  the 
world  and  God  was  always  harder  on  women 
than  he  is  on  men." 

There  was  no  answer  I  could  make ;  I  could 
not  have  spoken  had  there  been  anything  to 
say.  I  felt  choked  and  on  the  verge  of  tears. 
It  was  all  so  pitiful.  There  was  an  air  of  deso- 
lation about  the  place.  The  warmth  which 
prosperity  radiates  was  no  longer  evident. 
Where  formerly  there  had  been  leading 
players,  even  a  star  or  two,  now  there  were 
only  the  lower  ranks,  and  but  few  of  them. 
Nothing  remained  of  the  good  old  days  save 
the  rows  and  rows  of  photographs  which  lined 
the  walls,  all  of  them  autographed  and  in- 
scribed "With  love,  to  Mamma  Heward." 
Arm  in  arm  we  reviewed  this  galaxy  of 
players. 

"There  is ,"  she  said,  stopping  in  front 

of  a  well-known  actor.  "And  that's  his  first 
wife.  She  was  a  dear,  good  girl.  I'm  afraid 
Herbert  didn't  treat  her  as  well  as  he  should. 
Many's  the  time  she  has  cried  out  her  heart 


170         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

in  Mamma's  arms.  .  .  .  She's  married  again 
— no,  not  an  actor — and  she's  got  two  boys,  the 
littlest  one  the  size  of  yours.  .  .  .  Now  could 

you  ever  guess  who  that  is?  Yes,  that's 

when  he  was  leading  man  with  Modjeska.  The 
women  were  crazy  about  him.  .  .  .  And  he 
was  a  dear — such  a  kind-hearted  man.  I  re- 
member once  how  he  kept  the  furnace  going 
when  our  man  got  drunk  and  disappeared  for 
three  days.  If  only  I  had  a  picture  of  him 
shovelling  in  coal — his  sleeves  rolled  up  and 
spouting  Macbeth  at  the  top  of  his  lungs. 
.  .  .  Dear  old  Morry!  He  was  his  own 
worst  enemy.  .  .  ." 

She  sighed  heavily  over  the  actor's  bad  end. 
"And  there!  Do  you  recognize  that?  And 
isn't  the  boy  the  livin'  image  of  his  father?" 

I  looked  more  closely  at  the  photograph. 
Boy's  resemblance  to  his  father  was  even  more 
clearly  marked  in  some  of  Will's  earlier  pic- 
tures. 

"Do  you  remember  the  first  time  you  came 
to  me?  You  hadn't  been  married  long.  You 
had  a  dog,  a  bull  terrier  pup.  Let  me  think, 
now,  what  was  his  name?  Yes,  Billy,  that's 
it!  And  do  you  mind  how  ye  locked  him  up 
in  your  bathroom  when  you  went  to  the  theatre 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          171 

and  how  he  ate  the  matting  off  the  floor  while 
ye  was  gone?" 

We  both  laughed  at  the  recollection,  though 
I  had  not  laughed  at  the  time.  I  was  in  fear 
lest  Billy  be  relegated  to  the  cellar  where  he 
would  cry  out  his  puppy  heart.  But  Mamma 
Heward  was  never  in  a  bad  humour.  She 
was  all  kindness  and  consideration  .  .  .  and 
now  she  was  getting  old  and  could  no  longer 
please  an  exacting  clientele.  The  cost  of  liv- 
ing had  gone  up;  rents  were  higher;  but  the 
little  old  lady  could  get  no  more  for  her  rooms. 
To  make  both  ends  meet  she  dispensed  first 
with  one  servant,  then  with  another,  until  she 
and  one  frail  daughter  shared  the  entire  work 
of  the  house.  It  was  no  easy  matter  to  cook 
and  serve  a  dozen  breakfasts  in  the  rooms  at 
any  and  all  hours;  to  cater  and  prepare  meals 
and  then  to  wait  up  until  midnight  that  the 
players  might  have  a  hot  supper  after  the  per- 
formance. How  many  of  those  whom  she  had 
tided  over  the  hard  times,  how  many  who  had 
"stood  her  up"  for  a  board  bill,  or  whom  she 
had  nursed  in  times  of  illness,  remembered  her 
now  in  her  time  of  need? 

"I'm  not  finding  fault,"  she  said  softly, 
breaking  a  long  silence  while  we  looked  beyond 


172         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

the  pictures.  "I  don't  blame  them  for  not 
coming  here  to  live  .  .  .  only — I  wish  they'd 
drop  in  to  see  me  sometimes  when  they  come 
to  town,  just  for  auld  lang  syne.  .  .  ." 

When  I  told  Will  of  my  visit  he  looked  very 
serious.  I  am  sure  he  felt  sorry  we  had  not 
gone  back  to  her.  The  next  day  we  went  to- 
gether to  see  her.  Will  took  her  a  bottle  of 
port  wine.  Later  he  sent  her  two  seats  for 
the  performance  and  I  promised  her  that  the 
next  time  we  came  to  Chicago  we  should  stay 
with  her,  even  if  Will  were  a  star.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  X 

WILL'S  friends  certainly  provided  one  contin- 
ual round  of  pleasure,  if  dissipation  may  be 
classed  under  that  head.  I  was  brought  to 
wonder  how  they  found  time  for  "the  petty 
round  of  irritating  concerns  and  duties"  of  life. 
They  appeared  always  to  be  dining  or  lunching 
out.  One  met  them  in  the  various  restaurants 
at  all  hours,  drinking  round  upon  round  of 
cocktails,  and  polishing  them  off  with  cognac. 
The  Pompeian  room  at  the  Annex  between  five 
and  six  in  the  afternoon  is  Chicago  typified. 
The  artistic  gentleman  who  conceived  the  deco- 
rative scheme  of  the  Pompeian  room  had  a  sly 
sense  of  the  eternal  fitness  of  things.  He  also 
knew  his  Chicago.  The  great  bacchic  ampho- 
rae— copies  of  those  classic  receptacles  utilized 
as  relief  stations  by  old  Romans  who  had 
wined  too  well — are  concrete  reminders  of  his 
sense  of  humour.  I  have  seen  more  women 
in  Chicago  under  the  influence  of  liquor  than 
in  any  other  city  in  the  world.  This  probably 


174         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

accounts  for  their  low  standard  of  morality  as 
well  as  for  the  emotional  debauches  in  which 
they  indulge. 

There  was  one  couple  typical  of  the  class  of 
high-flyers  in  which  Chicago  abounds.  The 
husband  was  a  throat  specialist  with  a  splendid 
practice.  He  was  popular  among  stage-folk. 
Will  had  met  the  doctor  and  his  wife  during  a 
former  engagement.  The  wife  expressed  her- 
self as  "strong  for"  Will.  Scarcely  a  day 
passed  without  a  telephone  message  or  a  call 
from  Mrs.  Pease.  She  would  drop  in  at  the 
most  inopportune  times.  "Don  t  mind  me," 
she  would  say,  settling  herself  comfortably. 
"IVe  seen  gentlemen  in  dressing-gowns  before. 
That  red  is  very  becoming  to  your  peculiar 
style  of  beauty,  sir.  Nothing  if  not  artistic." 

Mrs.  Pease  was  a  tall  woman,  built  on  the 
slab  style.  She  affected  mannish  tailormades 
and  heavy  boots.  When  she  sat  down  she 
invariably  crossed  her  legs.  The  extremities 
she  exhibited  were  not  prepossessing.  She 
was  also  expert  in  innuendo  and  double  entente. 
She  flirted  outrageously  with  Will  and  made  me 
feel  like  the  person  in  the  song,  "Always  in 
the  way."  In  fact  I  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  wherever  we  went  I  was  accepted  as  a 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          175 

necessary  evil — among  the  women.  There 
was  always  a  "pairing  off"  after  dinner  or  sup- 
per; surreptitious  rendezvous  in  the  obscure 
cosey  corners ;  sotto  voce  conversations,  not  in- 
tended for  my  ears.  I  found  myself  getting 
the  habit  of  talking  stupid  nonsense  with  per- 
sons in  whom  I  was  not  interested,  simply  to 
cover  the  follies  of  the  others. 

The  men  flattered  me.  Flattery  is  a  habit 
with  men;  they  think  most  women  expect  it — 
and  they  do.  After  a  little  practice  a  woman 
can  tell  to  a  certainty  just  what  a  man  is  going 
to  say  under  certain  conditions.  How  can  any 
one  be  flattered  by  the  saccharine  platitudes 
which  are  ground  out  automatically  like  chew- 
ing-gum from  a  slot-machine?  So  few  women 
have  a  sense  of  humour.  They  have  less  self- 
respect. 

Chicago  lake-wind  claimed  me  for  a  victim. 
I  came  down  with  a  bad  throat.  Will  insisted 
upon  my  consulting  his  physician  friend.  He 
was  a  handsome  chap — this  popular  Doctor 
Pease — as  blonde  as  Will  was  dark,  but  al- 
ready marked  with  the  ravages  of  dissipation. 
He  had  a  genial  raillery  which  made  it  almost 
impossible  to  take  him  seriously.  I  did  not 
know  whether  it  was  a  part  of  the  treatment 


176          MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

to  unbare  my  throat  and  shoulders  and  sound 
my  lungs  and  to  let  his  hand  linger  on  the  un- 
covered flesh,  but  I  didn't  like  it.  Neither 
did  I  believe  my  age,  my  weight  and  my  bust 
measure  had  any  connection  with  my  throat 
trouble.  Of  course  I  didn't  tell  Will  anything 
about  it,  but  the  next  time  I  needed  treatment 
I  asked  him  to  accompany  me.  Will  liked  the 
doctor,  so  I  kept  my  own  counsel. 

One  noon-day  Mrs.  Pease  telephoned  that 
they  were  going  off  on  a  motor  trip  for  a  tour 
of  the  country  clubs,  at  one  of  which  they  had 
planned  to  dine.  They  wanted  me  to  join 
them  and  after  the  matinee  they  would  send 
a  car  to  pick  up  Will,  anl  return  him  in  time 
for  the  evening  performance.  I  told  Will  I 
did  not  want  to  go,  giving  the  excuse  that  my 
throat  was  still  sore.  Mrs.  Pease  answered 
that  the  doctor  said  the  air  would  do  me  good 
and  that  he  would  be  responsible  for  me.  I 
endeavoured  to  compromise  by  promising  to 
meet  them  at  the  theatre  after  the  matinee 
when  they  picked  up  Will,  but  the  doctor  him- 
self came  to  the  'phone  and  Will  decided 
for  me. 

When  the  telephone  announced  the  arrival 
of  the  party  I  went  down  to  the  reception 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          177 

room,  where  I  found  the  doctor  awaiting  me. 
He  bundled  me  into  my  great  fur  coat  and  in- 
sisted upon  my  wearing  a  fur  cap  his  wife  had 
sent  me.  He  cautioned  me  to  wrap  up  well, 
as  the  car  was  an  open  one.  When  we  went 
out,  as  I  supposed,  to  join  the  others,  I  was 
surprised  to  find  that  the  doctor  was  alone. 

"The  rest  of  them  have  gone  on  ahead,"  he 
answered  my  enquiring  look.  "I  was  detained 
at  the  office  and  told  them  not  to  wait  on  us. 
We'll  overtake  them  if  the  car  is  in  good 
shape." 

I  felt  strangely  uncomfortable  as  I  took  my 
seat  beside  him  in  the  racing  machine.  He 
secured  the  robes  about  me  with  his  easy  famil- 
iarity and  tucked  me  in  with  a  good  deal  of 
care.  As  he  seated  himself  at  the  wheel  and 
drew  on  his  gloves  he  smiled  at  me  and  asked 
whether  I  was  timid.  He  said  he  made  it  a 
rule  to  kiss  a  woman  whenever  she  screamed. 
That  was  not  a  propitious  beginning,  I  thought. 
The  doctor  drove  skillfully,  although  reck- 
lessly. 

The  boulevard  system  of  Chicago  is  an  ex- 
cellent one.  We  covered  miles  of  smooth  pav- 
ing, from  which  the  snow  had  been  removed, 
before  we  reached  the  country  roads.  After 


178          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

he  had  "let  her  out  a  bit"  and  showed  me 
what  she  could  do,  he  slowed  up  and  turned  to 
me  with  a  little  laugh,  "That's  going  some, 
isn't  it?"-  It  struck  me  at  the  time  that  "going 
some"  was  probably  the  motto  on  the  city's 
escutcheon.  Everybody  wants  to  be  faster 
than  everybody  else. 

The  air  was  exhilarating.  My  face  tingled 
from  the  contact  with  the  wind.  The  doctor's 
glances  made  me  uncomfortable.  "You  look 
like  a  rosy-cheeked  boy,"  he  said.  "I'd  like 
to  bite  you."  I  silently  thanked  the  stars  the 
car  was  an  open  one. 

Farther  on  we  stopped  at  a  country  club. 
The  doctor  said  it  was  a  long  time  between 
drinks.  As  we  drove  into  the  club-grounds  I 
noticed  another  motor  under  the  shed.  I 
hoped  it  might  belong  to  other  members  of  the 
party.  The  doctor  made  straight  for  the  shed. 
When  I  looked  at  the  deep  snow,  and  only  a 
narrow  path  cleared  to  the  club  house,  I  appre- 
hended some  silliness  on  the  part  of  my 
host. 

Disregarding  his  suggestion  to  sit  still  while 
he  put  up  his  machine,  I  climbed  down  and 
picked  my  way  over  the  slippery  path.  I  had 
not  gone  far  when  the  doctor  overtook  me  and, 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          179 

seizing  me  from  behind,  lifted  me  in  his  arms. 
Not  even  the  presence  of  the  men  shovelling 
snow  prevented.  My  first  impulse  was  to  free 
myself,  and  I  believe  I  administered  a  kick  or 
two.  The  more  I  remonstrated  the  more  he 
laughed.  The  picture  of  making  a  ridiculous 
show  of  myself  made  me  submit  to  being  car- 
ried the  rest  of  the  way. 

After  ushering  me  into  the  living-room  the 
doctor  had  the  good  sense  to  leave  me  alone 
for  a  while.  By  the  time  he  appeared  I  had 
sufficiently  recovered  my  equilibrium  to  receive 
him  frostily.  My  dignity  was  lost  on  him.  He 
pulled  up  a  great  armchair  in  front  of  the  roar- 
ing fire  and  bade  me  drink  the  hot  scotch  the 
waiter  at  that  moment  brought  in.  A  subdued 
titter  from  an  obscure  corner  of  the  room  sent 
the  doctor  in  search  of  other  occupants.  He 
discovered  them  behind  a  screen. 

"Aha !"  he  greeted  them  in  mock-serious- 
ness. "Discovered!" 

"Stung";  responded  a  masculine  voice.  "So 
this  is  why  you  wouldn't  join  our  party,  eh? 
You  sneaked  off  by  yourselves.  I  didn't  think 
anybody  but  me  would  have  the  nerve  to  try 
this  place  so  soon  after  the  snow-storm." 

"Neither  did  we!" 


i8o          MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

"For  Heaven's  sake  don't  give  us  away,  will 
you?"  It  was  the  woman  who  spoke.  .  .  . 
"Who've  you  got  with  you?"  she  added  in  a 
lower  tone. 

"O,  a  little  friend  of  mine,"  answered  the 
doctor.  "Come  over  and  meet  her.  I  think 
you  know  her  husband — Hartley,  the  ac- 
tor." 

I  fear  the  couple  whose  rendezvous  we  had 
discovered  were  not  impressed  with  the  popu- 
lar actor's  wife.  My  conversation  was  limited 
to  monosyllables.  The  omission,  I  fancy,  was 
not  serious.  They  had  their  own  topic  of  con- 
versation. It  revolved  chiefly  around  the 
tenth  commandment.  In  fact,  one  might  con- 
clude with  perfect  assurance  that  the  seventh 
and  the  last  of  the  commandments  are  the 
raison  d'etre  of  all  conversation  among  that 
set.  ...  I  lost  count  of  the  drinks.  The  doc- 
tor said  that  in  the  future  he  would  provide 
Maraschino  cherries  by  the  bottle  for  my  es- 
pecial delectation. 

When  we  left  the  club  it  was  dark.  The 
doctor's  friends  went  at  the  same  time.  They 
had  a  chauffeur.  The  doctor's  bloodshot  eyes 
made  me  wish  we,  too,  had  one.  The  cold 
air,  happily,  set  him  right.  He  drove  more 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          181 

carefully  than  earlier  in  the  day.  Perhaps  he 
recognized  his  own  condition.  Once  he  slowed 
down  and  looked  at  his  watch. 

"We're  going  to  be  late,"  he  said.  "I've 
half  a  mind  to  telephone  that  we've  picked  up 
a  puncture  and  have  gone  back  to  town  for  re- 
pairs. What  do  you  say?"  He  appeared  to 
be  turning  the  matter  over  in  his  mind,  but  I 
could  see  that  he  was  not  taking  me  into  con- 
sideration. 

"No,  we  can't  do  that,"  I  said  without  too 
much  emphasis.  "Mr.  Hartley  would  be 
worried." 

He  smiled  at  me  as  he  replaced  his  watch. 
"Yes,  I  guess  you're  right;  it  will  have  to  wait 
until  some  other  time."  He  patted  the  covers 
above  my  lap.  "Little  Girl,"  he  murmured, 
rather  too  tenderly.  I  was  glad  I  could  not 
see  his  eyes.  The  car  shot  ahead.  For  the 
next  half  hour  I  had  a  bewildering  sense  of 
flying  over  the  snow-clad  earth,  coming  now 
and  then  in  contact  with  it  as  the  car  struck  a 
rut.  The  lights,  striking  against  the  stalactited 
branches  of  the  trees  and  foliage,  scintillated 
like  the  tiara  of  a  comic-opera  star — or  the 
Diamond  Horseshoe  on  society  night  at  the 
Metropolitan. 


1 82          MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

We  were  the  last  ones  to  arrive  at  the  coun- 
try club  where  we  were  to  dine.  This  time 
the  doctor  dropped  me  at  the  door.  Some- 
one was  drumming  the  piano  as  I  came  in.  By 
the  time  I  had  taken  off  my  wraps  the  doctor 
joined  me.  There  was  a  general  noisy  greet- 
ing when  we  entered  the  great  hall.  Nearly 
all  of  the  women  I  had  met  before.  "I  thought 
the  doctor  had  smashed  you  up,"  one  of  them 
said.  "Or  punctured  a  tire  and  gone  back  to 
town,"  another  added,  giving  the  doctor  a 
broad  wink. 

"Leila's  gone  back  to  town  to  get  Mr.  Hart- 
ley," volunteered  someone  else.  (Leila  was 
Mrs.  Pease.) 

I  settled  myself  in  a  niche  of  the  chimney- 
seat,  hoping  to  thaw  out  eventually.  I  was 
chilled  to  the  very  depths  of  my  being,  and  it 
was  not  altogether  physical.  There  were  lots 
and  lots  of  cocktails  before  dinner.  Judging 
from  the  spirits  of  the  company  there  had  been 
a  few  before  we  arrived.  When  I  heard  that 
Mrs.  Pease  herself  was  driving  the  car  in 
which  she  had  gone  to  fetch  Will,  I  had  visions 
of  his  being  dumped  into  a  snow-bank  or  of 
colliding  with  a  trolley.  It  seemed  an  inter- 
minable time  until  they  appeared.  We  had 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          183 

reached  the  entree.  There  was  a  noisy  greet- 
ing and  a  round  of  sallies. 

"Explain  yourself!' 

"We  thought  you'd  eloped  or  got  locked  up 
for  speeding!" 

"Stopped  on  the  road,  I'll  bet,"  said  the  doc- 
tor, who  had  risen  and  grasped  Will's  hand. 
Will  waved  to  me  across  the  table. 

"O,  you  actor!"  came  from  the  woman  at 
my  right  but  one.  I  recognized  the  person 
who  had  reproved  Will  after  the  supper  at  the 
College  Inn  on  the  opening  night. 

When  the  champagne  was  served  Will 
raised  his  glass  to  me. 

"Drink  it — it  won't  hurt  you;  you  look 
tired,"  he  said,  in  a  stage  whisper. 

"Stop  flirting  with  your  wife !"  remonstrated 
Mrs.  Pease.  "Doc— Doc!"  (The  doctor  was 
busy  with  a  little  blonde  lady  on  the  left.)  He 
turned  enquiringly  to  his  wife's  bleat.  "You're 
neglecting  your  patient.  Handsome  Willy 
here  says  his  wife  is  pale  and  wants  to  know 
what  you've  been  doing  to  her!" 

The  doctor  leaned  over  me  solicitously. 
"Never  mind — I'm  the  doctor."  For  the  rest 
of  the  meal  he  devoted  himself  to  me. 

During  the  dinner  a  party  of  five  came  in 


1 84         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

and  sat  at  another  table.  Two  of  them 
proved  to  be  the  couple  we  had  met  at  the 
other  country  club.  The  man  winked  dis- 
creetly to  the  doctor. 

"Ye  gods!"  exclaimed  the  woman  at  my  left 
but  one.  "It's  Sid! — and  I'm  supposed  to  be 
home,  sick  in  bed  with  a  headache!" 

She  looked  at  the  man  I  had  met  and  I  as- 
sumed he  was  "Sid."  "Damn  such  a  town, 
anyway,  where  you  can't  go  out  without 
running  into  your  own  husband.  Doc, 
who's  he  got  with  him?"  She  leered  across 
the  room  at  "Sid's"  good-looking  compan- 
ions. 

"Never  mind,  Bell,"  soothed  the  doctor, 
"neither  of  you  have  got  anything  on  the 
other." 

Bell  blew  him  a  kiss.  "Dear  old  pain- 
killer!" she  purred. 

A  little  later  "Sid"  came  over  to  the  table 
and  the  doctor  joined  the  other  party.  Sid's 
wife  started  to  introduce  him  to  me. 

"I've  met  the  lady,"  he  interrupted,  not  giv- 
ing me  credit  for  any  discretion. 

"O,  you  have,"  she  said  in  an  unpleasant 
tone. 

As  he  passed  on  behind  her  chair  he  said  to 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          185 

her  sotto  voce,  "Headache,  eh?  I  like  the 
way  you  lie." 

"O,  you  go  to  hell!"  was  the  gentle  rejoin- 
der. There  was  still  a  trace  of  the  anger 
which  illuminated  her  bleary  eyes  when  she 
turned  to  me.  "What  do  you  think  of  him 
trying  to  put  it  over  me?" 

She  steered  back  to  the  subject  which  was 
on  her  mind.  Where  had  I  met  her  husband 
and  when?  I  told  her  I  didn't  recall — that 
he  was  probably  mistaken.  She  knew  I  was 
lying.  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  why  I  did  it. 

Someone  started  telling  funny  stories.  They 
were  not  really  funny;  only  smutty.  The 
women  were  more  daring  than  the  men.  Will 
always  declared  that  women  were  "whole  hog- 
gers"  when  once  they  started.  I  presume  they 
labour  under  the  impression  that  it  is  sporty 
or  that  it  pleases  the  men  "to  go  them  one  bet- 
ter." Ever  since  Eve  was  made  for  Adam's 
pleasure  the  female  sex  has  been  as  pliable  as 
the  original  mixture  of  mud  and  a  floating  rib. 
Women,  generally,  are  what  men  want  them 
to  be.  ... 

As  time  went  by  I  began  to  fret  lest  Will  be 
late  for  the  evening  performance.  Finally  I 
caught  his  eye  and  he  understood  my  message. 


1 86          MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

He  looked  at  his  watch  and  jumped  to  his  feet. 
"Doc,  what's  the  best  time  your  machine  can 
make?  IVe  got  precisely  twenty  minutes  be- 
fore the  curtain  goes  up." 

'Til  get  you  there,"  answered  the  doctor  as 
he  left  the  table. 

"I'll  drive  him  in,"  called  the  doctor's  wife. 

uNo,  I  guess  not!"  he  answered  over  his 
shoulder.  I  devoutly,  if  mutely,  thanked 
heaven.  I  am  sure  the  doctor  realized  that 
his  wife  was  "three  sheets  to  the  wind" — to 
use  Will's  favourite  expression. 

I  made  my  adieus  and  rose  to  follow  Will. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  called  Mrs.  Pease. 
"No,  you  don't — you  don't  shake  us  like  this! 
Willy,  tell  your  wife  to  sit  down  and  behave 
herself."  In  vain  I  expostulated  that  I  must 
go  back  to  the  baby.  "Never  mind  the  kiddie; 
he's  asleep  and  don't  even  know  he's  got  a 
mother."  She  followed  us  into  the  hall  where 
the  doctor  and  Will  were  hurrying  into  their 
fur  coats. 

"You  can't  go  this  trip,  little  lady,"  and  the 
doctor  pushed  me  out  of  the  draughty  doorway. 
"There's  no  room  in  the  car  and  we're  going 
to  ride  like  hell."  I  appealed  mutely  to  Will, 
who  drew  me  aside. 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          187 

"Stick  it  out  a  little  longer,  girlie.  They'll 
feel  hurt  if  you  don't.  You  can  telephone  to 
the  hotel  if  you're  anxious  about  the  boy."  He 
kissed  me  lightly.  I  felt  on  the  verge  of  re- 
bellion. 

"Shall  you  be  late?"  I  managed. 

"No — unless  something  breaks  down  on  the 
way.  I'm  not  on  until  after  the  rise,  and  if 
necessary  I'll  go  on  without  my  make-up." 

"Come  on,  Hartley!"  The  doctor  was  al- 
ready at  the  wheel.  We  watched  them  spurt 
ahead. 

"I  hope  your  husband's  insured,"  gurgled 
one  of  the  women.  ...  I  felt  sick  and 
wretched.  I  wanted  to  go  home,  even  if  it 
were  only  a  hotel  room.  Home  was  where 
Boy  was.  I  had  a  wild  impulse  of  stealing  out 
unnoticed  and  asking  my  way  to  the  nearest 
trolley  line.  Then  I  remembered  I  had  not  a 
cent  in  my  purse. 

The  return  of  the  doctor  relieved  my  mind 
as  to  Will's  safe  arrival.  I  comforted  myself 
with  the  thought  that  the  party  would  soon 
break  up.  The  diners  across  the  room  had 
joined  us  before  the  return  of  the  doctor. 
There  was  another  round  of  liqueurs  and  at 
last  someone  moved  to  break  up.  "Sid's"  wife, 


1 88          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

whose  tongue  was  getting  thick,  suggested  that 
we  all  go  for  a  drive  and  end  up  by  having 
supper  at  Rector's.  There  was  general  acqui- 
escence. "Let's  make  a  night  of  it,"  was  the 
slogan. 

While  the  others  were  dividing  themselves 
to  suit  the  accommodation  of  the  various  auto- 
mobiles, Mrs.  Pease  and  I  went  to  the  dress- 
ing-room. "Lord!  Don't  I  look  a  sight?" 
she  exclaimed,  scanning  her  reflection  in  the 
mirror.  "That's  the  worst  of  booze ;  it  makes 
me  white  around  the  gills."  She  daubed  on  a 
bit  of  rouge  and  patted  it  over  with  a  powder 
puff.  I  took  advantage  of  our  tete-a-tete  and 
asked  her  if  she  would  be  so  good  as  to  ar- 
range to  drop  me  at  my  hotel  on  the  way  back. 

"Why,  my  dear,  you're  not  going  home  yet; 
you're  going  right  along  with  us." 

"I  really  must  not.  .  .  .  Mr.  Hartley 
wouldn't  approve,  I  know.  I  have  not  been 
well  and " 

"Rot!  You  leave  that  to  the  doctor.  He'll 
stop  and  leave  a  note  at  the  theatre.  .  .  . 
Doc!  Doc!  Come  here.  .  .  ."  The  doctor 
peeped  in  the  doorway. 

"O,  come  in — we're  only  powdering  our 
noses,"  Mrs.  Pease  called  to  him.  "Say,  look 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          189 

here!  Mrs.  H.  thinks  hubby  might  not  ap- 
prove of  her  going  on  with  us " 

"I  didn't  mean — "  I  began. 

"I  tell  her  you'll  fix  it  up  with  him,"  she 
interrupted. 

"It's  fixed — long  ago.  I  told  your  husband 
we'd  come  for  him  after  the  show.  He'll  want 
a  bite  to  eat  anyway,  and  why  not  be  sociable? 
He  told  me  to  tell  you  to  be  a  good  little  sport 
and  wait  for  him."  He  laid  an  arm  around 
my  shoulders  and  Mrs.  Pease,  still  busy  in 
front  of  the  mirror,  laughed  in  mock  serious- 
ness. 

"O,  don't  mind  me!" 

"Did  Mr.  Hartley — did  my  husband  say  he 
expected  me  to  wait?" 

"Sure  Mike,"  broke  in  Mrs.  Pease.  "Doc, 
you  go  pilot  that  bunch  so  they  don't  butt  into 
my  preserves.  Saidee  is  soused,  and  when 
Saidee  gets  soused  she  gets  nasty  drunk."  The 
doctor  disappeared.  "I  can't  stand  for  women 
who  don't  know  their  capacity,"  Mrs.  Pease 
continued,  working  on  her  complexion.  "You're 
a  wise  little  gazabo  to  go  slow  on  the  fizz.  I 
watched  you  to-night,  and  the  way  you  manipu- 
lated the  glasses  was  a  scream.  .  .  .  Do  you 
know  you  made  a  great  hit  with  the  doctor? 


190          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

You're  just  his  style — dark  eyes,  full  bust  and 
not  'higher  than  his  heart.'  .  .  .  O,  I'm  not 
jealous!  The  Doc  and  I  are  on  to  each  other." 
She  winked  at  me  and  led  the  way  to  the  hall. 

"On  to  each  other."  ...  I  mulled  over  the 
expression  as  I  watched  husbands  and  wives 
pairing  off  with  and  showing  their  preference 
for  someone  else.  Everybody  seemed  to  be 
"on  to  each  other."  It  was  a  game  of  stale- 
mates. 

I  drove  back  with  the  doctor.  There  was 
no  way  out  of  it  without  making  a  scene.  "Sid" 
and  the  doctor  engaged  in  a  brush  along  the 
road.  The  reckless  speeding  fitted  in  with  my 
mood.  There  were  moments  when  I  almost 
wished  that  something  would  break  and  land 
me  with  some  broken  bones,  if  nothing  more. 
I  was  smarting  under  Will's  obvious  lack  of 
consideration.  He  knew  the  atmosphere  was 
not  a  congenial  one,  yet  he  sacrificed  me  to  it 
without  hesitation.  I  wanted  with  all  my 
heart  to  have  him  popular  and  sought  after;  I 
was  willing  to  play  the  game — up  to  a  certain 
point.  But  when  the  game  entailed  a  loss  of 
self-respect,  of  confidence,  or  of  equivocation 
with  one's  better  instincts,  there  I  drew  the 
line.  It  ceased  to  be  worth  the  candle. 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          191 

I  could  no  longer  shut  my  eyes  to  the  en- 
croachments upon  our  happiness  the  very  exi- 
gencies of  his  profession  demanded.  My  pas- 
sionate and  childish  efforts  at  blind  man's  buff 
were  not  convincing-  The  time  had  come 
when  my  husband  and  I  must  have  a  complete 
understanding.  I  must  make  clear  to  him  how 
I  felt  After  that,  if  he  were  still  blind  to  the 
dangers  which  threatened  our  life — no,  I  would 
not  dwell  on  such  a  contingency.  I  felt  sure 
Will  would  see  things  at  their  true  valuation. 
For  the  first  time  that  day  I  settled  back  to 
something  approaching  a  state  of  composure. 
One  always  feels  less  perturbed  after  determin- 
ing upon  a  course  of  action.  I  resolved  to  sec 
the  evening  through  with  as  much  equanimity 
as  possible.  There  was  something  grimly 
humorous  about  the  situation:  if  Will  really 
wanted  to  make  a  sport  of  me  I  was  "cutting 
my  eye-teeth"  with  a  vengeance. 

So  engaged  was  I  with  my  own  thoughts  I 
had  not  noticed  that  we  had  slowed  up.  Coin- 
cidentally  the  car  came  to  a  stop.  The  doctor 
rose  to  his  feet  and  looked  behind  him. 

"Anything  wrong  ?"  I  questioned. 

"No;  I  only  wanted  to  make  sure  the  coast 
was  clear." 


1 92          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

He  knelt  with  one  knee  on  the  seat  and 
pulled  the  robe  about  me  from  behind.  With 
his  free  hand  he  raised  my  face  close  to  his, 
and  held  me  there. 

"I'm  going  to  have  one  kiss  from  those  lus- 
cious lips — if  it  takes  a  leg,"  he  said. 

The  doctor  was  a  strong  man.  Will  had 
often  remarked  that  no  one  would  suspect  me 
of  having  so  much  strength.  Yet  I  was  a  mere 
child  in  the  doctor's  hands.  He  pinioned  my 
arms  beneath  the  weight  of  his  body.  He  kept 
his  lips  on  mine  until  the  strength  oozed  out 
of  my  finger-tips  from  sheer  suffocation.  When 
he  raised  his  head  it  was  only  to  look  at  me 
and  breathing  hard  again  to  fasten  himself 
upon  me  with  a  fiercer  tremor  which  shook  his 
whole  frame.  .  .  .  Only  once  or  twice  in  all  our 
married  life  had  Will  kissed  me  like  that.  I 
had  believed  it  an  expression  of  purest  love. 
I  realized  now  that  it  connoted  other  emotions 
less  pure.  .  .  .  "Baby!  Baby!  .  .  .  Put  your 
arms  around  my  neck.  .  .  .  You  haven't 
fainted,  have  you?"  .  .  .  He  lifted  me  to  my 
feet.  I  could  not  repress  a  hysterical  sob. 
"There — that's  better!  I  didn't  mean  to  be  so 
rough,  but  I'm  mad  about  you.  You  drive  me 
crazy!  Kiss  me  of  your  own  free  will.  .  .  ." 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          193 

I   succeeded   in   holding   him   back  while   I 

looked  him  in  the  eyes,  struggling  to  express 

what  my  lips   refused  to  say.  .  .  .    "O  .  .  . 

O  .   .  ."   I   finally  stammered.     "Is  it   right? 

.  .  .  Do  you  think  it's  right?  .  .  ." 

Wholly  misconstruing  my  words,  he  strained 
me  to  him  and  kissed  me  more  tenderly,  en- 
deavouring to  soothe  me.  "Right?  Little 
boy,  who  the  devil  cares  whether  it's  right 
or  not!  It's  nice,  isn't  it?  Don't  you  love 
it?" 

"My  husband  ...  do  you  think  it's  right 
to  him?  .  .  ." 

Something  of  the  disgust  I  felt  must  have 
pierced  him,  for  he  released  me  with  a  change 
of  expression. 

"O,  come  now — don't  spring  that  old  gag 
on  your  friend  the  Doc.  .  .  .  What  do  you 
care  as  long  as  he  doesn't  get  on  to  it?  .  .  . 
You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  a  good-looking 
fellow  in  his  profession  has  it  thrown  at  him 
from  all  sides.  You  don't  think  he  turns  'em 
all  down,  do  you?  You've  got  too  much  sense 
for  that.  .  .  .  Come  on,  now  .  .  .  let's  under- 
stand each  other.  .  .  .  You're  as  safe  with  me 
as  a  babe  on  its  mother's  breast.  .  .  .  I'll  call 
you  up  on  Saturday  and  we'll  go  off  some 


194         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

place    together    .    .    .    where  we  can  talk  it 
over.     .     .     .     God,  Baby!    I'm  crazy  about 

you!   .   .   ." 

*  *  *  * 

When  Will  and  I  walked  into  our  rooms  at 
the  hotel  the  little  travelling  clock  on  my  bu- 
reau pointed  the  hour  of  three.  I  slipped  out 
of  the  fur  coat  the  doctor  had  loaned  me  and 
left  it  in  a  heap  upon  the  floor.  I  don't  know 
how  long  I  stood  contemplating  space.  .  .  . 
Then  I  heard  him  cross  the  room  and  pick  up 
the  coat.  I  felt  his  eyes  fastened  upon  me.  I 
roused  myself  and  went  into  the  bedroom, 
where  I  began  to  take  down  my  hair  in  front 
of  the  mirror.  Will  followed  me  and  I  saw 
that  he  was  watching  me  in  the  glass.  After  a 
moment  he  spoke  to  me. 

"Girlie  .  .  .  '  his  voice  was  kind.  .  .  . 
"You'll  have  to  learn  to  gauge  your  capacity. 
.  .  .  You're  not  a  tank  like  the  rest  of  the 
crowd.  .  .  .  Look  at  your  face;  it's  as 
red  as  a  red,  red  rose — and  has  been  all  eve- 
ning." 

He  patted  me  on  the  arm  and  went  into  the 
bathroom.  I  felt  as  if  I  were  going  to  shriek. 
.  .  .  Will  thought  I  was  drunk.  ...  I 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          195 

looked  at  myself  in  the  glass.  .  .  .  My 
face  was  drawn  and  there  were  red  burn- 
ing spots  in  my  cheeks.  .  .  .  My  eyes  peered 
out  like  two  burnt  holes  in  a  blanket.  .  .  . 
Yes,  it  was  plain  to  see  that  I  was  not  myself. 

...  I  smothered  a  burst  of  hysterical  laugh- 
ter. ...  I  started  toward  the  bathroom 
where  Will  was  preparing  for  bed.  I  in- 
tended to  tell  him  that  in  all,  during  the  entire 
day,  I  had  taken  only  one  glass  of  champagne 
— and  that  at  his  request.  .  .  .  Then  I 
stopped.  I  did  not  dare  to  trust  myself.  .  .  . 
I  knew  he  would  laugh  and  pet  me  and  say  he 
had  not  meant  to  criticize  and  then  he  would 
take  me  in  his  arms  .  .  .  and  I  would  cry  it 
all  out  upon  his  heart.  ...  I  would  tell  him 
the  whole  miserable  experience  .  .  .  and  he 
.  .  .  what  would  he  do?  If  he  called  the 
doctor  to  account  there  would  be  a  scandal. 

...  It  would  be  degrading.  ...  I  could 
never  endure  it.  .  .  .  And  if  he  did  not  call 
the  Doctor  to  account — if  he  merely  cut  him 
without  demanding  satisfaction,  I  should  des- 
pise him — I  should  hate  him.  .  .  .  "O,  yes 
you  would — you  know  you  would,  though  you 
wouldn't  acknowledge  it  even  to  yourself* 


196         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

*  .  .  it  was  Miss  Burton's  voice.  .  .  .  "Take 
my  advice — better  not  tell  him  at  all."  I 
switched  off  the  light,  so  that  Will  could  not 
see  my  face.  .  .  . 

*  *  *  * 


CHAPTER   XI 

I  REVELLED  in  the  heavy  cold  which  kept  me 
indoors.  No  amount  of  urging  or  cajoling  on 
the  part  of  my  husband  could  induce  me  to  see 
the  doctor.  Were  I  to  express  a  preference 
for  some  other  physician,  Will's  suspicions 
might  be  aroused.  Experience  applied  old- 
fashioned  remedies  and  in  a  few  days  I  was 
able  to  be  about  the  room.  Mrs.  Pease  tele- 
phoned daily  and  called  several  times  in  per- 
son. Will  saw  her,  but  Experience  had  been 
instructed  that  I  could  see  no  one.  During  my 
retirement  I  had  turned  things  over  in  my 
mind,  arguing  pro  and  con  the  advisability  of  a 
thorough  understanding  with  Will.  It  ap- 
peared to  me  that  the  danger  of  such  a  pro- 
ceeding lay  in  the  tearing  down  of  barriers 
which  could  never  again  be  replaced — a  rend- 
ing aside  of  all  illusion  between  us.  Hereto- 
fore I  had  refrained  from  any  expression  of 
animadversion  of  his  profession  or  his  conduct. 
If  he  suspected  any  dissatisfaction  on  my  part 
he  preferred  to  let  it  pass  without  comment 
197 


198          MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

Spasmodically  he  indulged  in  bursts  of  confi- 
dence— confidences  of  the  kind  not  calculated 
to  improve  my  opinion  of  his  profession.  At 
such  times  he  appeared  fully  to  appreciate  the 
corroding  atmosphere  in  which  he  lived.  He 
even  contemplated  retiring  from  the  stage. 
These  phases  were  rare,  however,  generally 
attending  a  disappointment  in  a  role,  discontent 
with  an  engagement  or  unfavourable  criticism 
of  his  work.  The  mood  soon  passed  and  he  ap- 
peared to  be  content  with  the  ephemeral  joys 
of  the  moment. 

The  longer  I  brooded  over  the  subject  the 
less  sure  I  became  of  any  good  to  be  attained 
by  a  frank  expression  of  my  mind.  Were  I  to 
eliminate  all  circumlocution  and  say:  "My  hus- 
band, there  is  something  fundamentally  wrong 
with  a  profession  which  demands  a  compro- 
mise with  one's  best  instincts,"  or  "the  class  of 
people  with  which  you  come  in  daily  contact 
make  for  your  ultimate  degradation,"  or, 
again,  "I  do  not  approve  of  your  petty  deceits, 
the  complacency  with  which  you  accept  moral 
obliquity,  the  low  standard  which  permeates 
our  entire  life,"  this  would  call  for  amplifica- 
tion, an  indulgence  in  personalities  which  could 
result  only  in  a  greater  breach  between  us.  I 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          199 

might  even  be  accused  of  jealousy,  inconsidera- 
tion  for  his  future,  and  a  lack  of  faith  in  the 
man. 

It  had  often  occurred  to  me  that  there  was 
such  a  thing  as  too  great  intimacy,  a  too  care- 
less frankness  between  husband  and  wife !  A 
lack  of  reserve  which  ended  in  a  secret  con- 
tempt for  each  other's  weaknesses.  To  be  tol- 
erant of  and  to  respect  these  weaknesses  while 
striving  to  stimulate  the  best  in  each  other's 
nature;  in  short,  to  be  a  complement,  each  to 
the  other,  this  appeared  to  me  the  basic  prin- 
ciple of  marriage.  And  as  I  had  done  in  the 
past  I  again  fell  back  upon  my  inner  self.  I 
wanted,  O,  I  so  wanted  to  develop  the  best 
that  was  in  him  .  .  .  and  there  was  much, 
nearly  all  of  him  was  good.  The  danger  lay 
in  environment.  .  . 

One  day — it  was  a  week  later  that  Will  had 
planned  to  dine  at  the  Press  Club — I  lay  on 
the  couch  watching  Boy.  He  sat  on  a  fur  rug 
on  the  floor,  playing  with  Snyder.  Experience 
had  gone  down  to  an  early  dinner.  There 
was  a  knock  on  the  door.  I  called  out,  "Come 
in."  It  was  the  doctor. 

"I  took  advantage  of  my  professional  capac- 
ity and  came  up  unannounced,1'  he  said,  easily, 


200         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

without  directly  looking  at  me.  He  removed 
his  coat  and  tickled  Boy's  face  with  the  tail  of 
the  fur  lining.  Boy  drew  up  his  nose  and 
laughed  at  the  sensation,  and  the  doctor 
dropped  the  coat  upon  the  floor  for  him  to  play 
with.  Then  he  squatted  beside  him  while  Boy 
stroked  the  fur  and  called  it  ucat."  For  sev- 
eral minutes  the  doctor  busied  himself  with  the 
child,  deploring  the  deformities  of  Snyder  and 
imitating  a  dog's  bark. 

"Great  boy,  that!"  he  concluded,  rising  to 
his  feet  and  taking  a  long  breath. 

"Now,  then,  tell  me  all  about  it,"  he  said, 
drawing  up  a  chair  in  a  purely  professional 
manner  and  looking  at  me  without  a  trace  of 
self-consciousness.  "You're  pale;  that's  what 
you  get  for  not  sending  for  the  doc.  How's 
your  pulse?"  He  reached  for  my  hand  and 
held  it  regardless  of  my  frowning  face.  .  .  . 
"Rotten  .  .  .  you  need  a  tonic.  I'll  write  a 
prescription  right  off."  There  was  silence 
while  he  wrote.  Then  he  rose,  placed  the 
slip  of  paper  on  the  table,  tossed  the  boy  in  the 
air  and  crossed  back,  looking  down  at  me  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"Well,  little  girl,  what  have  you  got  to  say 
for  yourself?  ...  I  suppose  you're  still  sore 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          201 

on  me  .  .  .  forget  it  and  forgive.  I  apolo- 
gize. I  acted  like  a  beast,  I  know.  .  .  It  was 
the  booze.  It  got  the  better  of  my  judgment. 
Just  the  same,  in  vino  veritas,  I  was  most  ter- 
ribly stuck  on  you — and  still  am — no,  sit  still! 
I'm  cold  sober.  ...  I  thought,  of  course,  you 
were  like  the  rest.  .  .  .  Come,  shake  hands 
with  me  and  say  all  is  forgiven.  I  saw  your 
husband  today  and  he  told  me  to  come  and 
see  you.  ...  I  knew  then  that  it  was  all 
right.  ...  I  felt  sure  you  had  too  much  com- 
mon sense  to  tell  hubby.  .  .  .  When  are  you 
coming  out  of  the  nunnery?  .  .  ."  He  threw 
himself  into  the  chair  and  smiled  genially.  I 
was  holding  fast  to  something  he  had  said:  "I 
thought  of  course  you  were  like  the  rest."  .  .  . 

"Doctor,  will  you  answer  me  a  question — 
truthfully,  I  mean?" 

"I  will  if  I  can,"  he  flashed  back  at  me. 

"You  said  a  few  minutes  since  that  you  had 
thought  me  like  the  rest.  Who  did  you  mean 
by  'the  rest' — women  as  a  class — the  class 
you  go  about  with — or  the  women  of  the 
stage?" 

"Well  ...  if  you  want  the  honest  truth — 
I  had  actresses  in  mind  when  I  spoke." 

"You  believe  actresses  are  any  worse,  even 


202          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

as  bad,  as  the  women  I  met  at  dinner  last 
week?" 

"Um  .  .  .  ye-s  ...  I  think  actresses 
would  go  farther." 

"Go  farther!" 

"Yes.  None  of  these  women — at  least  not 
many  of  them — you've  met  would  really  go  the 
limit.  They  do  a  good  deal  of  playing  around 
the  edge,  but  it's  only  once  in  a  while  they  get 
into  a  scrape.  .  .  .  Look  here !  I  don't  hold 
a  brief  for  judging  the  relative  virtues  of 
women.  I  don't  blame  anybody  for  squeezing 
all  the  enjoyment  they  can  out  of  life — for  you 
don't  know  what's  coming  hereafter." 

The  doctor  showed  signs  of  irritation.  .  .  . 

A  sound  from  Boy  suggested  my  next  re- 
mark. 

"Suppose  one  has  children?" 

"That's  a  horse  of  another  colour.  .  .  . 
Though  when  you  come  right  down  to  it  I  don't 
see  that  a  family  cuts  much  ice.  Children  are 
for  the  most  part  accidents.  They  just  hap- 
pen. Their  conception  is  the  result  of  careless- 
ness or  laziness.  Their  ultimate  arrival  is  ac- 
cepted a  good  deal  like  a  deluge  or  a  fire;  you 
do  everything  you  can  to  stop  it — to  the  verge 
of  self-destruction — then  you  throw  up  your 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          203 

hands  and  accept  the  inevitable.  There  isn't 
one  love  child  in  a  million.  I  mean  a  child  of 
love  in  the  sense  of  premeditated  and  welcome 
conception.  Men  and  women  marry  for  one  of 
a  half  dozen  reasons,  most  commonly  because 
they  believe  they  are  in  love.  When  the 
honeymoon  wanes  and  you  get  right  down 
to  commonplace,  every-day  life  in  all  its 
ugliness,  we  begin  to  feel  that  we've  been 
buncoed.  If  we  are  truthful  with  our- 
selves we  acknowledge  a  share  of  the 
bunco  game.  Way  back  in  our  subcon- 
scious mind  the  sensation  of  our  courtship,  the 
pursuit  and  the  first  mad  moments  of  posses- 
sion have  stuck  fast.  .  .  .  We  fairly  throb  at 
the  thought  of  them.  We  begin  to  hanker  for 
a  repetition  of  these  sensuous  dope-dreams. 
.  .  .  Presently  we  are  off  hot  for  the  chase 
.  .  .  and  a  little  dash  of  the  forbidden  fruit 
acts  as  a  stimulant.  Like  all  stimulants  it  be- 
comes necessary  to  increase  the  dose  after  a 
while  to  insure  efficacy.  That's  where  we  be- 
gin to  slop  over.  .  .  ."  The  doctor  leaned 
back  with  the  air  of  one  who  is  satisfied  with 
his  diagnosis. 

"We  are  getting  away  from  the  subject,"  I 
remarked  caustically. 


204          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

"Not  a  bit  of  it  ...  we're  running  along 
converging  lines.  The  stage  is  the  mart  for 
the  prettiest  and  most  magnetic  of  women.  A 
pretty  woman  may  be  moral,  but  the  chances 
are  against  it.  Every  man  looks  upon  her  as 
so  much  legitimate  loot.  They  differ  only  in 
their  methods  of  getting  away  with  it.  Some- 
times they  effect  a  legitimate  sale:  this  is  what 
our  social  system  calls  marriage.  More  often 
the  rate  of  exchange  is  usurious  on  the  part  of 
the  man.  It  varies  from  a  bottle  of  wine  and 
a  few  pretty  clothes  to  a  diamond  necklace  and 
equally  brilliant  promises.  .  .  .  Now  here's 
where  our  lines  converge.  The  stage  is  a 
good  place  to  show  goods.  Our  eternal  chase 
bids  us  go  in  and  look  'em  over — and — if  you 
are  in  a  mood  to  trade — to  say  nothing  of  hav- 
ing the  price — you'll  find  a  bevy  of  ambitious 
beauties  with  a  keen  eye  to  business." 

"You  infer,  then,  that  the  society  lady  sins 
for  love  only — and  that  the  actress  bestows 
her  affection  for  purely  mercenary  motives?" 

"I  don't  make  any  such  broad  distinction  as 
that — but  I  believe  the  actress  has  always  an 
eye  on  the  main  chance  and  that  she  wouldn't 
let  a  little  thing  like  love  interfere  with  busi- 
ness. .  .  .  The  society  woman,  on  the  other 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          205 

hand,  usually  goes  wrong  because  she's  unhap- 
pily married  and  tries  to  make  up  for  what's 
missing  by  stealing  a  little  happiness  on  the 
side." 

"Then  I  am  to  believe  that  the  stories  one 
reads  about  lovers  who  present  other  men's 
wives  with  bejewelled  gold  purses  and  other 
little  feminine  gew-gaws  are  wholly  fictitious; 
pure  emanations  from  the  brain  of  newspaper 
reporters — or  the  French  dramatist  .  .  .  and 
from  the  divorce  records?" 

The  doctor  threw  back  his  head  and  roared 
like  a  lion.  .  .  . 

"Perhaps  you'll  be  good  enough  to  tell  me 
under  what  head  you  classified  me — being 
neither  a  love-lorn  society  lady  nor  an  ambitious 
actress  with  an  eye  to  the  main  chance.  .  .  ." 

The  doctor  sobered  to  the  point  of  anger. 
"I  have  told  you  that  I  am  sorry.  ...  I  have 
apologized.  .  .  .  After  all,  what  are  we  row- 
ing about?  You've  proved  an  alibi — you're 
not  like  the  rest — so  let's  forget  it." 

"I  can't  forget  it.  ...  You  are  judging  a 
whole  class  by  a  few  individuals  who  share 
your  perverted  ideas  .  .  .  individuals  who 
would  be  immoral  in  a  nunnery.  .  .  .  Would 
any  of  the  women  of  your  set — name  any  one 


206          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

of  them — would  she — could  she  be  less  moral 
on  the  stage?  Impossible!  I  don't  believe  you 
when  you  say  none  of  them  would  'go  the 
limit!'  Women  who  drink  as  much  as  they 
do ;  women  whose  tongues  are  furred  with  vul- 
gar stories;  women  who  proclaim  they  are 
'on  to  their  husbands'  and  that  their  husbands 
are  on  to  them  and  still  continue  to  live  under 
the  same  roof,  occupy  the  same  beds;  women 
who  write  other  women's  husbands  love  letters 
and  arrange  places  of  assignation  ...  do  you 
mean  you  do  not  know  these  women  'go  the 
limit'?"  .  .  .  My  indignation  and  resentment 
had  swept  me  like  a  storm  and  left  me  weak 
and  bedraggled.  The  doctor  made  no  re- 
sponse. ...  I  felt  that  he  was  watching 
me.  After  a  while  I  proceeded  more 
quietly.  .  .  . 

"The  trouble  with  you,  doctor,  is  that  you 
form  your  opinions  from  the  newspapers.  The 
man  who  writes  the  headlines  believes  it  is  his 
bounden  duty  to  accentuate  any  and  everything 
pertaining  to  the  stage.  The  most  obscure 
chorus  girl  is  'an  actress.'  Every  divorcee 
whose  antics  have  emblazoned  the  hall  of  ill- 
fame  expects  to  become  an  actress  and  the 
newspapers  record  her  aspiration  in  large  type. 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          207 

A  police  court  magistrate  in  New  York  once 
told  me  that  three-fourths  of  the  women  ar- 
rested on  the  streets  for  accosting  men  gave 
their  occupations  on  the  police  blotter  as 
'actress.'  Do  you  think  any  yellow  sheet  ever 
let  an  opportunity  like  that  go  by?  .  .  .  If  all 
the  petty  affairs  .of  your  clients  or  your  friends 
and  casual  acquaintances,  both  scandalous  and 
innocuous,  were  printed  from  week  to  week,  do 
you  think  there  would  be  an  appreciable  dif- 
ference between  the  standard  of  morality  of 
the  doctors,  the  dentists,  the  butchers  and 
bakers  and  that  of  the  actor?  ...  I  don't 
think  you  take  into  consideration  that  the 
actor's  life  is  public  property.  He  is  denied 
the  right  of  privacy  in  all  matters.  Nothing 
is  too  trivial,  too  delicately  personal,  to  be 
shared  with  the  public." 

"And  who's  to  blame  for  that,  my  lady,  but 
the  player  himself?  Publicity  is  his  stock  in 
trade.  He's  got  to  advertise,  or  drop  out. 
...  If  ever  I  want  a  divorce,  I'll  dig  up  an 
actor  as  co-respondent:  not  because  there  may 
not  be  others,  but  because  the  actor  would  ap- 
preciate the  advertisement."  .  .  .  The  doctor 
leaned  toward  me  to  better  enjoy  my  discomfi- 
ture, then  laughed  tormentingly. 


208          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

I  rose  to  my  feet;  he  accepted  his  conge  lin- 
geringly. 

"Well,  at  any  rate  I've  done  you  good;  your 
face  has  got  back  its  colour."  .  .  .  He  stood 
contemplating  me  for  a  second. 

"You  know  .  .  .  youVe  got  a  good  deal  of 
think  works  under  that  dusky  head — only  don't 
think  too  much.  .  .  .  It's  bad  business  for  a 
woman  of  your  temperament."  He  turned  to 
pick  up  his  coat.  Boy  had  fallen  asleep  upon 
it,  nestling  close  to  the  warm  fur.  "What  a 
shame  to  disturb  him — don't  do  it.  I  can  do 
without  the  coat  until  I  get  home."  I  lifted 
Boy  gently  and  carried  him  still  asleep  to  the 
bedroom  beyond.  The  doctor  followed  to  the 
alcove  and  stood  watching  while  I  covered  the 
child.  Then  he  picked  up  his  coat  and  threw 
it  over  his  arm. 

"I  guess  you're  equal  to  holding  Handsome 
Bill  by  the  leading  strings,  all  right.  .  .  . 
Hartley's  a  fine  chap;  one  of  the  nicest  actors 
I  ever  knew,  and  I'm  downright  fond  of 
him."  .  .  . 

I  could  not  repress  a  sneer  in  the  safety  of 
the  twilight.  It  was  not  lost  on  the  doctor. 

"I  know  what  you  are  thinking  about,"  he 
said  quietly,  "but  you  know  as  well  as  I  that 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          209 

where  there's  a  woman  in  the  case  there's  about 
as  much  honour  among  men  as  there  is  among 
thieves."  .  .  .  He  stretched  out  his  hand. 
"Good-bye,  little  girl.  .  .  .  I'm  glad  to  have 
had  this  talk  with  you ;  it's  better  than  dodging 
each  other  and  arousing  suspicion.  Aren't 
you  going  to  shake  hands?  .  .  .  O,  well  if  you 
look  at  it  in  that  light  .  .  .  just  the  same,  I'm 
yours  to  command  whenever  you  feel  the  need 
of  me."  .  ,  Exit  doctor. 


CHAPTER    XII 

TOWARD  the  end  of  the  engagement  in  Chicago 
it  became  expedient  that  I  undergo  a  minor 
operation.  Will  suggested  I  enter  a  private 
hospital  near  at  hand,  that  he  might  be  in 
daily  communication  with  me.  I  preferred, 
however,  to  return  to  New  York,  and  place 
myself  under  the  care  of  our  family  physician. 
Our  apartment  being  still  occupied,  I  decided 
on  one  of  the  smaller  hotels,  which  abound  on 
the  cross  streets  between  Twenty- fourth  and 
Forty-fifth.  Will's  company  was  booked  for  a 
week  in  Cleveland  following  the  Chicago  en- 
gagement. 

I  received  daily  letters  from  Will  telling  me 
how  lonely  he  was  without  Boy  and  me,  and 
every  other  day  he  wired  me  some  nice  little 
greeting.  The  operation  was  simple  and,  as 
Experience  was  permitted  to  bring  Boy  to  visit 
me  during  given  hours  of  the  afternoon,  the 
time  passed  quickly. 

210 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          211 

By  the  end  of  the  week  I  was  able  to  leave 
the  hospital  and  I  had  apprised  Will  of  my 
intention.  Consequently  I  was  not  surprised 
to  find  a  telegram  awaiting  me  at  the  hotel. 
Experience  said  it  had  probably  been  deliv- 
ered while  she  was  on  the  way  to  fetch  me.  I 
waited  until  I  had  made  myself  comfy  in  a  big 
arm  chair  which  Experience  had  ready  for  me, 
and  while  she  made  a  cup  of  tea  over  our  alco- 
hol lamp  I  settled  back  to  enjoy  Will's  mes- 
sage. It  was  a  long  one,  I  saw  at  a  glance. 
Experience  turned  enquiringly  at  my  ejacula- 
tion. The  telegram  had  been  sent  from  Cin- 
cinnati, where  Will  was  now  playing,  follow- 
ing Cleveland.  It  read:  "Come  at  once  if  you 
are  able  to  travel.  Not  ill,  but  need  your 
presence.  Have  wired  money  to  bank.  Best 
train  Big  Four  Limited  leaving  at  six-thirty 
p.  m.  New  York  Central.  Telegraph  on  de- 
parture. Love,  Will." 

I  read  and  reread  the  message.  My  per- 
turbation grew.  What  did  Will  mean  by 
"need  your  presence"?  He  forestalled  any 
alarm  about  his  health  by  saying  he  was  not 
ill,  but  had  he  told  the  truth?  Perhaps  he  had 
met  with  an  accident,  a  terrible  disfiguring — 
surely  I  was  letting  my  nerves  run  away  with 


212          MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

me.  .  .  .  But  why  did  he  urge  me  to  come  to 
Cincinnati  when  we  had  planned  to  meet  the 
following  week  in  St.  Louis,  his  home  city,  and 
where  there  was  to  be  a  kind  of  reunion  of  the 
family  relatives?  It  was  obvious  that  he  ex- 
pected me,  as  he  had  taken  the  care  to  look  up 
trains  and  had  telegraphed  the  money. 

There  was  something  very  much  the  matter. 
...  I  glanced  at  the  clock.  It  lacked  a  few 
minutes  of  five,  and  the  train  left  at  half  after 
six.  .  .  .  The  bank  was  closed,  but  I  could  get 
a  check  cashed.  Whatever  had  happened  it 
was  my  duty  to  be  with  Will.  I  jumped  to  my 
feet,  forgetful  of  my  convalescence.  The 
weakness  had  vanished.  I  felt  strangely  well. 
"Experience  .  .  .  never  mind  the  tea.  .  .  . 
We  leave  for  Cincinnati  at  once.  .  .  ." 

Experience  set  down  the  kettle  and  looked 
at  me  with  her  hand  on  her  hips.  ...  I  made 
no  explanation,  but  began  to  don  the  clothes  I 
had  only  a  moment  since  removed.  The  neces- 
sity for  immediate  action  finally  seeped  into 
Experience's  brain.  "Then  I  guess  I'll  have 
to  fly  at  packin'  up.  .  .  .  Law-zee,  if  this  ain't 
seein'  the  country!  .  .  ." 

Will  met  us  at  the  station.  The  first  glimpse 
of  him  through  the  iron  grill  relieved  my  sus- 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          213 

pense  concerning  his  health.  He  was  not  ill, 
and  appeared  to  be  whole  and  undamaged.  He 
was  solicitous  about  my  condition.  I  did  look 
a  bit  of  a  wreck.  After  the  excitement  of  get- 
ting off  had  subsided  and  there  was  nothing  to 
do  but  listen  to  the  monotonous  clickety-click  of 
the  speeding  train,  I  had  collapsed.  The  re- 
action was  too  great.  It  was  not  until  we  were 
in  sight  of  our  destination  that  I  dragged  my- 
self to  my  feet  and  steeled  myself  to  meet 
whatever  emergency  confronted  me.  .  .  .  Nat- 
urally I  asked  no  questions  during  the  drive  to 
the  hotel.  The  general  aspect  of  Cincinnati 
was  typical  of  my  state  of  mind:  an  unsunned 
sky  and  a  smoke-filmed  atmosphere.  ...  It 
occurred  to  me  how  fallacious  was  Milton's 
conception  of  "evil  news."  .  .  .  "For  evil 
news  rides  post  while  good  news  baits."  It 
has  always  appeared  to  me  the  other  way 
about.  Good  news  flashes  on  to  its  destination 
gathering  impetus  as  it  goes,  while  harbinger 
of  bad  lags  on  behind,  retarding  the  very  hours 
by  its  sable  weight.  .  .  .  The  mental  rack  of 
suspense,  of  waiting,  while  the  imagination  con- 
jures an  endless  chain  of  dire  probabilities. 
.  .  .  When,  at  last,  Experience  and  Boy  were 
settled  in  an  adjoining  room  Will  closed  the 


214         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

door  and  turned  to  me.  It  seemed  an  inter- 
minable time  before  he  spoke.  He  seemed  to 
be  bracing  himself  for  the  effort. 

"First  I  want  to  thank  you  for  coming  witk- 
out  question.  ...  I  only  hope  you  will  not 
suffer  a  relapse.  .  .  ." 

I  waved  aside  the  preamble.  .  .  . 

"Well,"  I  said.  .  .  . 

*  *  *  * 

I  think  I  was  stunned.  Nothing  seemed  quite 
real  about  the  room.  Even  Will's  voice  sound- 
ed remote.  I  had  experienced  the  same  sensa- 
tion coming  out  of  the  ether  after  my  opera- 
tion. The  doctor's  assuring  "It's  all  right,  lit- 
tle lady;  just  open  your  eyes"  reached  me  from 
across  spanless  space.  Then,  as  now,  followed 
a  great  wave  of  nausea,  whirling  me  into  a  re- 
lentless undertow,  leaving  me  limp  and  racked 
with  pain.  .  .  .  Mechanically  I  re-read  the 
clipping  Will  had  thrust  into  my  hand  by  way 
of  preparing  me  for  what  followed.  It  was  an 
excerpt  from  "The  Club  Window"  and  ran  as 
follows:  "A  certain  clique  of  rough-riders  al- 
lied with  a  North  Side  country  club  are  laying 
odds  on  a  high-stepping  filly  of  their  set  who 
for  some  time  past  has  been  riding  for  a  fall. 
The  inevitable  cropper  will  involve  a  certain 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          215 

actor  who  for  the  past  month  has  been  de- 
lighting Chicago  audiences  with  his  manly  pul- 
chritude as  well  as  his  histrionic  ability.  The 
lady  in  the  case  showed  marked  preference  for 
the  society  of  the  actor  during  one  of  his  for- 
mer visits  to  the  Windy  City.  From  time  to 
time  there  has  reached  the  ears  of  the  seat- 
warmers  in  the  Club  Window  gossip  of  certain 
little  junkets  to  New  York  during  the  past  win- 
ter. It  may  have  been  purely  coincidental  that 
the  actor  was  playing  a  season's  engagement  in 
the  metropolis  but — be  that  as  it  may — the  ad- 
vent of  the  company  to  our  parts  was  watched 
with  considerable  gusto.  Likewise  it  may  have 
been  purely  chance  that  the  husband  of  the 
third  part  was  away  on  a  hunting  trip.  'The 
best  laid  plans  of  and  so  forth;  the  unexpected 
happened  when  the  actor's  wife  accompanied 
him  on  his  visit  to  us.  The  affair  was  for  the 
moment  in  abeyance.  But — no  sooner  had 
the  wife  returned  to  New  York  than  the  fire 
broke  out  with  renewed  ardour  probably  fanned 
by  the  previous  adverse  winds  of  cruel  fate. 
When  the  company  left  for  another  city  the 
fair  Chicagoan  was  missing  from  her  accus- 
tomed haunts.  Subsequent  investigation  af- 
firmed the  rumour  that  the  lady  was  a  guest  at 


216          MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

a  leading  hotel  in  Cleveland.  Incidentally  her 
suite  of  rooms  was  on  the  same  floor  as  that 
of  the  actor.  Let  us  hope  that  some  busy  bee 
does  not  buzz  about  the  head  of  the  mighty 
hunter  and  bring  him  back  gunning  for  the  de- 
stroyer of  his  peace.  Verily,  verily,  the  actor 
hath  power  to  charm." 

"You  must  realize,  girlie,  that  I  wouldn't 
have  worried  you  with  this  nasty  business  if  I 
hadn't  been  afraid  of  letting  us  both  in  for 
something  worse.  .  .  .  What  do  you  think  of 
the  damned  cat  who  cooked  up  a  thing  like 
that?  It  was  pure  spite  work.  You  see  it  was 
like  this:  When  I  met  this  female  reporter 
two  years  ago  she  was  all  for  me.  You  remem- 
ber the  nice  things  she  wrote  about  me  when  I 
played  Chicago  the  last  time?  Well,  she  came 
on  to  New  York  last  winter  and  I  took  her  to 
lunch  and  showed  her  other  little  attentions 
just  to  keep  on  the  good  side  of  her.  About 
the  same  time  the  other  dame  blew  in,  and  I 
felt  it  was  up  to  me  to  discharge  some  of  my 
social  debts  to  her.  Here's  where  the  elderly 
spinster  reporter  got  sore.  She  thought  she 
had  a  corner  on  the  market.  It's  hell  to  be 
such  a  fascinatin'  devil!  .  .  ." 

Will  winked  at  me,  albeit  a  little  dubiously, 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND         217 

sensing  a  probable  lack  of  appreciation  on  my 
part. 

"When  I  came  back  to  Chicago  this  trip," 
he  continued,  "I  received  a  note  from  my  quon- 
dam friend  and  later  she  came  back  to  my 
dressing-room  to  see  me.  She  made  some  per- 
tinent remarks  about  the  other  woman,  hinted 
at  some  persons  being  ingrates  after  all  she 
had  done  to  boom  them  when  they  were  'also 
rans'  and,  now  that  they  had  got  there,  threw 
down  their  old  friends.  I  lost  my  temper  a  bit 
and  we  parted  bad  friends.  The  result  was 

she  transferred  her  booming  to  "  (Will 

named  the  character  actor  of  his  company) 
"and  proceeded  to  lay  it  over  me  on  every 
possible  occasion.  .  .  .  These  damned  wo- 
men are  always  worse  when  they  get  along 
in  life.  .  .  ." 

"What  did  this  'club'  woman  expect  of  you? 
.  .  .  What  did  she  want?" 

Will  looked  at  me  blankly,  then  batted  his 
eyes.  .  .  . 

"Why  .  .  .  why,  I  suppose  the  old  hen 
wanted  me  to  make  love  to  her:  she  made  a 
play  for  me  and  I  threw  her  down  hard." 

He  took  the  clipping  from  my  fingers  and 
replaced  it  in  his  wallet. 


2i 8          MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

"Did  you  know  that  the — the  lady  was  com- 
ing to  Cleveland  ?"  I  asked. 

"Why — not  exactly;  she  said  something 
about  it  while  we  were  still  in  Chicago  but  I 
thought  she  was  bluffing.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
I  thought  she  had  more  sense  than  to  do  a 
thing  like  that." 

"What  led  you  to  believe  she  had  bet- 
ter sense? — anything  in  her  past  perfor- 
mances?" 

"No — but  women  are  pretty  foxy:  they  gen- 
erally take  care  to  cover  their  trails  no  matter 
how  reckless  they  pretend  to  be.  Not  many 
of  them  want  to  lose  their  homes  in  spite  of 
their  protestations  about  giving  up  everything 
for  'thou'.  .  .  ." 

"Why  did  you  not  insist  on  her  returning 
home  at  once  ?  Couldn't  you  have  gone  to  an- 
other hotel?" 

"What  good  would  that  have  done?  She 
would  have  followed.  When  she  turned  up  in 
Cleveland  I  handed  it  to  her  straight,  you 
may  imagine.  I  didn't  mince  matters  a  little 
bit." 

"Was  she  afraid  to  go  back  home  ?" 

"I  don't  know;  she  said  she'd  left  for  good 
and  that  she'd  never  live  with  her  husband 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          219 

again.  I  told  her  she  could  do  as  she  pleased 
about  that,  but  I  didn't  propose  to  become  in- 
volved. Then  she  threatened  to  commit  sui- 
cide— throw  herself  in  the  lake.  I  told  her  to 
go  ahead  and  then  she  had  hysterics  all  over 
the  place.  I  had  a  fine  tea-party,  I  can  tell  you. 
.  .  .  Somebody  sent  me  a  marked  copy  of  the 
Club  Window.  I  knew,  then,  it  wouldn't  be 
long  before  her  husband  would  get  wise  to  it 
and  I  didn't  know  what  kind  of  a  game  he'd 
spring  on  me.  I  guess  it's  not  the  first  time 
the  lady  has  kicked  over  the  matrimonial  traces, 
according  to  reports.  Maybe  he's  looking  for 
just  such  an  opening." 

The  room  was  thick  with  tobacco-smoke. 
Will  was  burning  up  one  cigar  after  an- 
other. 

"She  made  a  fine  spectacle  of  herself  and  of 
me  by  showing  up  at  the  railway  station  look- 
ing like  a  boiled  owl.  After  our  scene  she 
capped  the  climax  by  getting  a  peach  of  a  jag. 
...  By  George,  I  never  will  hear  the  last  of 
it  from  the  members  of  the  company."  He 
pulled  down  a  window  from  the  top  and 
stopped  at  the  desk,  where  he  took  a  telegram 
from  his  portfolio — a  Christmas  present  I  had 
made  him. 


220         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

"Yesterday  morning  I  received  this."  I  read 
the  message : 

"Call  me  long  distance  Friday  noon  sharp.  Im- 
portant. (Signed)  DOC." 

"It  was  decent  of  the  Doc,  wasn't  it?  Well, 
I  got  him  on  long  distance  and  the  first  thing 
he  asked  me  was  whether  the  lady  were  with 
me.  'Well,  not  exactly  with  me,  but  I  can't 
shake  her,'  I  shouted  back.  'You've  got  to,' 
the  Doc  went  on,  'for  your  wife's  sake  you 
mustn't  get  landed  with  the  goods.'  The  Doc 
is  one  of  these  'from-Missouri'  gentlemen  and 
wouldn't  believe  I  was  innocent  under  oath. 
Just  the  same  he's  a  good  fellow.  He  told  me 
he  knew  all  about  my  predicament  and  that  he'd 
taken  time  by  the  forelock  and  got  hold  of 
madame's  sister,  who  was  standing  beside  him 
while  he  talked.  She  had  her  grip  with  her, 
ready  to  start  for  Cincinnati  at  once.  I  told 
him  to  send  her  by  the  fastest  express.  The 
Doc  said  that  madame's  husband  had  returned 
to  town  unexpectedly — just  as  I  had  anticipat- 
ed— and  after  a  stay  of  twenty-four  hours  had 
again  disappeared.  No  one  at  his  office  or  at 
his  home  knew  where  he  had  gone.  The  sister 
said  he  had  called  her  up  and  inquired  where 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          221 

his  wife  had  gone  and  had  rung  off  abruptly. 
Then  the  Doc  quizzed  the  stenographer,  who 
was  an  old  chum  of  his,  and  she  confided  to  him 
that  the  husband's  secretary  had  bought  a  ticket 
to  Cleveland.  .  .  .  'He's  on  the  trail,'  the  Doc 
warned,  'and  there's  only  one  thing  for  you  to 
do  ...  send  for  your  wife  if  she's  able  to 
travel.  .  .  .  Make  her  get  to  Cincinnati  before 
he  does.  Your  wife  is  a  level-headed  little 
woman  and  if  you  put  it  to  her  straight  she'll 
play  up.  .  .  .  Together  you  can  cook  up  some- 
thing to  placate  the  irate  husband.  .  .  .*  Can't 
you  just  hear  the  old  Doc  roar?  Well,  I 
thought  his  advice  good  and  I  wired  you  at 


once." 


.  .  .  "Has  the  sister  arrived?"  ...  I  found 
it  difficult  to  make  myself  heard.  My  voice  was 
dry  and  grated  harshly.  .  .  . 

"Yes,  she's  here;  they're  on  the  floor  below.*' 
Will  poured  a  glass  of  water  and  handed  it 
me.  Then  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and 
waited.  It  was  his  turn  to  be  silent.  He 
seemed  to  have  talked  himself  out.  .  .  . 

"Which  of  them  is  it?  ...  Do  I  know 
her?" 

"Yes;  we  had  dinner  at  her  house  one  Sun- 
day night." 


222         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

"Blonde?" 

"Um— yes.  .  .  ." 

"Art's  triumph  over  Nature,  I  suppose. " 
...  I  could  not  resist  the  thrust  .  .  .  sudden- 
ly I  sat  bolt  upright. 

"Will  .  .  .  Will.  .  .  .  Not— Mrs  F.- 
not  the  woman  with  the  two  little  girls  .  .  . 
not  the  mother  of  those  children.  .  .  ." 

He  nodded  and  raised  his  shoulders  with  a 
gesture  which  was  half  deploring,  half  depre- 
cating. 

"Oil!  ..."  I  covered  my  face  with  my 
hands  .  .  .  the  picture  was  too  revolting.  .  .  . 
"Children  don't  cut  much  ice,"  the  doctor  had 
said.  I  stopped  up  my  ears  to  shut  out  his 
voice.  .  .  . 

"How  did  it  begin?"  I  said  at  last. 

"O  .  .  .  the  usual  way  .  .  .  supper — or 
dinner,  I've  forgotten  which — a  little  flirtation, 
lots  of  booze,  motor-rides,  rendez-vous  while 
you  listen  to  the  neglected  wife  song  and  dance, 
more  dinners  and  suppers  and  motor-rides  .  .  . 
and  the  first  thing  you  know  the  fool  woman 
is  in  love  with  you,  or  thinks  she  is,  which  is 
worse.  ...  I  hope  you  don't  blame  me.  I 
can't  help  it  if  women  make  fools  of  themselves 
over  me."  .  .  .  Something  in  Will's  tone — a 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          223 

sang  froid — almost  a  braggadocio — sent  the 
blood  to  my  face  with  a  rush  of  anger.  I 
leaned  forward  in  my  chair  and  looked  him 
in  the  eyes. 

"Will  ...  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you 
never  encouraged  this  woman?" 
"How  do  you  mean — encouraged?" 
"In  God's  name  don't  juggle  with  your 
words — don't  equivocate!  You  know  what  I 
mean  as  well  as  I  do ! — to  encourage  in  a  hun- 
dred intangible  ways;  to  show  that  you  are 
flattered  by  a  woman's  attention;  to  let  her  be- 
lieve that  you  believe  you  are  the  only  one  upon 
whom  she  has  bestowed  her  favours ;  to  let  her 
tell  you  that  you  are  the  first  man  for  whom 
she  has  betrayed  her  husband,  though  she  has 
been  neglected  and  unhappy  for  years  and 
years;  to  cram  down  your  throat  the  intimate 
confidences  of  her  married  life  and  to  tell  you 
she  has  never  sought  consolation  elsewhere;  to 
let  her  do  all  these  without  giving  her  the  lie 
when  you  know  in  your  heart  she  was  lying. 
That's  what  I  mean !  .  .  .  O,  believe  me  I  am 
beginning  to  understand  the  intricacies  of  the 
game  .  .  .  and  if  you  have  gone  the  limit  .  .  . 
I  don't  ask  you  to  confess  it  ...  fidelity  does 
not  hinge  upon  the  sexual  act,  alone — though 


224         MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

you  men  place  that  above  every  other  virtue 
in  a  woman — but  I  do  ask  you  for  the  sake  of 
your  manhood,  for  your  own  self-respect,  don't, 
don't  play  the  part  of  a  cad!" 

Will  winced  as  if  I  had  struck  him  in  the 
face.  His  face  had  grown  quite  pale  and  his 
lips  were  compressed.  When  he  spoke  his 
voice  cut  the  air  like  a  fine  blade  of  steel. 

uSo  that's  what  you  think,  is  it?  ...  I've 
obviously  made  a  mistake  in  sending  for  you 
.  .  .  but  I  did  so  more  for  your  sake  than  for 
my  own  ...  to  prepare  you  and  save  you 
from  a  shock  if  there  was  a  blow-out.  ...  I 
never  knew  before  what  a  poor  opinion  you 
had  of  me." 

"Don't  distort  my  words,  Will,  if  you 
please.  .  .  ." 

He  paced  back  and  forth,  beating  the  back 
of  one  hand  against  the  palm  of  the  other. 

"I  know  you're  sick  and  weak  .  .  .  I'm  try- 
ing to  make  every  allowance  for  your  state  of 
nerves.  Up  to  date  you've  played  up  like  a 
brick.  I've  often  watched  you  and  secretly  ad- 
mired the  way  you  handled  things,  but — if 
you're  going  to  spoil  it  all  by  developing  into 
a  jealous  woman  at  this  stage  of  the  game  .  .  ." 
I  turned  on  him  quickly. 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          225 

"I'm  sure  you  can't  say  that  IVe  ever  an- 
noyed you  in  that  line." 

"No,  I'll  admit,  youVe  been  a  level-headed 
woman  .  .  .  but  remember  IVe  played  square 
with  you  and  I  think  you'll  admit  that.  IVe 
never  had  a  serious  affair  with  any  woman — 
and  the  Lord  knows  I  have  it  thrown  at  me 
from  all  sides.  The  woods  are  full  of  Poti- 
phar's  wives.  ...  If  you  had  some  men  to 
deal  with  .  .  .  how  many  of  'em  can  stand  up 
against  that  sort  of  thing  without  losing  their 
heads?  .  .  .  why,  I've  had  people  tell  me  we 
were  a  model  couple  .  .  .  and,  here,  the  first 
time  I  get  into  anything  like  a  serious  predica- 
ment  " 

"Then  you  admit  other  predicaments?" 

"Why,  of  course,  there's  been  .  .  .  O,  hell 
— what's  the  use  of  trying  to  argue  with  a 
woman!  You're  like  all  the  rest! — when  it 
comes  to  a  show-down  they're  not  deuces 
high!"  .  .  .  He  crossed  to  the  telephone  and 
called  a  waiter. 

"IVe  got  to  order  an  early  dinner;  I'll  have 
a  fine  dose  of  indigestion  as  it  is — after  all  this 
infernal  row.  .  .  .  Of  course,  if  it  came  to  a 
show-down  and  he  named  me  as  co-respondent 
it  wouldn't  do  me  any  damage  but  it  would 


226         MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

upset  the  pater  and  the  rest  of  the  family  all 
along  the  line.  You  know  how  they  feel  about 
the  stage  .  .  ." 

"What  about  me?"  was  on  the  tip  of  my 
tongue  but  I  did  not  voice  it  or  the  thoughts 
which  followed.  How  should  I  feel  to  see  a 
home  broken  up  and  to  know  that  my  husband 
shared  in  the  wrecking? — whether  directly  or 
indirectly — the  results  were  the  same.  And  the 
woman — and  the  two  little  girls  .  .  .  what  of 
them?  ...  A  knock  at  the  door  caused  my 
very  heart  to  contract.  Had  the  husband  ar- 
rived to  demand  Heaven  only  knew  what? 
.  .  .  The  waiter  entered  with  a  menu.  I  had 
completely  forgotten  that  Will  had  summoned 
him.  When  the  waiter  had  taken  the  order 
and  gone,  Will  crossed  and  laid  his  hand  on  my 
arm. 

"Come  now,  girlie — we  musn't  let  this 
fool  thing  come  between  you  and  me.  It  isn't 
worth  it!  You  know  I  love  you  .  .  .  you're 
the  only  woman  IVe  ever  loved  .  .  .  ever 
will  love  .  .  ." 

O,  wise  husband!  He  knew  I  could  no  more 
resist  his  tenderness  than  a  flower  resists  the 
warm  sun.  .  .  .  He  let  me  revel  in  my  first 
fierce  burst  of  tears  and  comforted  me  mutely; 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          227 

then,  still  holding  me  in  his  arms,  he  went  on 
talking : 

"Sometimes  I  hate  this  damned  business  and 
feel  that  I'd  like  to  chuck  it  altogether  .  .  . 
but  what's  a  man  to  do  after  he's  given  the 
best  years  of  his  life  to  one  thing?  It  takes  a 
long  time  to  get  established  in  any  profession, 
nowadays  .  .  .  and  I'm  getting  older  every 
day.  .  .  .  I'm  sorry  I  was  ugly  .  .  .  my 
nerves  are  a  bit  frazzled,  too  .  .  .  but  I'll  be 
all  right,  now  that  you  and  I  understand  each 
other  .  .  .  come,  now  .  .  .  let's  forget  it. 
.  .  .  Come  in  the  bath-room  and  bathe  your 
eyes.  I've  ordered  a  nice  little  dinner  and  a 
bottle  of  fizz;  it'll  buck  you  up.  Then,  before 
I  go  to  the  performance,  we'll  outline  some 
plan  of  action.  .  .  ." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  I  asked,  as 
I  came  out  of  the  bath-room  a  little  later. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WHEN  I  entered  the  room  I  had  no  intention 
of  engaging  in  a  slanging  match.  I  had  tele- 
phoned my  coming  and  her  sister  was  awaiting 
me.  I  felt  almost  sorry  for  the  girl  standing 
beside  the  bed,  her  eyes  meeting  mine  uncer- 
tainly, her  lips  forcing  a  greeting. 

"Won't  you  sit  down?  Fannie,  here  is  Mrs. 
Hartley.  .  .  ." 

The  woman  in  the  bed  turned  and  raised  her- 
self on  her  elbow.  Her  face  was  swollen,  the 
lips  blue  and  loose,  and  her  eyes  had  the  look 
of  watery  gelatine.  Without  meeting  my  eyes, 
she  moaned  theatrically  and  buried  her  face  in 
the  pillows. 

"What — what  must  you  think  of  me?" 
she  whined. 

"I  think  you're  a  fool!"  slipped  out  before  I 
could  prevent  it. 

"All  women  are  fools — we're  all  fools  over 
some  man,"  she  exclaimed,  pounding  the  pillows 
with  her  fist  and  working  herself  up  to  a  Za- 
zaesque  brand  of  hysteria. 
228 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          229 

"Mrs.  F.,  I  did  not  come  here  to  listen  to 
a  dissertation  on  the  sex-question  nor  to  hold 
your  hand  while  you  have  a  fit  of  nerves. 
You've  got  to  pull  yourself  together  or  I'll 
wash  my  hands  of  the  whole  affair.  I've  come 
all  the  way  from  New  York  to  help  you  out  of 
a  nasty,  a  dirty  scrape.  If  you  wish  to  hear 
what  I  have  to  say  you'll  stop  that  silliness  and 
act  like  a  full-grown  woman  with  a  modicum 
of  discretion.  .  .  .  Your  husband  is  apt  to 
walk  in  at  any  moment  and  it  may  be  well  for 
all  concerned  that  we  arrive  at  some  plan  of 
defence." 

Her  sister,  who  had  retired  to  a  corner  of 
the  room  behind  me  when  I  sat  down,  now 
crossed  to  the  bedside. 

"Mrs.  Hartley  is  right,  Fannie — Frank  is 
liable  to  show  up  at  any  minute." 

Fannie  fished  for  her  handkerchief  under  the 
pillows  and  sniffed  tearfully  while  her  sister 
arranged  the  pillows. 

"Please  pardon  me,  Mrs.  Hartley;  my 
nerves  are  all  gone." 

"I  have  a  few  nerves,  myself,"  I  thought.  I 
found  myself  grasping  the  arms  of  my  chair 
as  one  sometimes  does  at  the  dentist's  and  my 
teeth  fairly  ached  from  the  clinching  of  my 


230         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

jaws.  When  Mrs.  F.  had  folded  and  dropped 
her  hands  into  her  lap  with  the  air  of  a  long- 
suffering  woman,  I  proceeded. 

"Mr.  Hartley  and  I  have  decided  that  you 
are  my  guest:  that  it  was  at  my  invitation  you 
went  to  Cleveland  with  us  and  that  I  urged 
you  to  continue  on  the  trip  until  your  husband 
returned  from  his  hunting  trip.  On  your  ar- 
rival here,  you  contracted  a  heavy  cold  which 
developed  into  the  grippe;  grippe  will  answer 
as  well  as  anything  else  and  is  not  sufficiently 
serious  to  call  in  a  physician.  Are  you  familiar 
with  the  symptoms  of  the  grippe?"  Mrs.  F. 
nodded. 

"Very  well.  When  you  began  to  grow  worse 
you  telegraphed  your  sister." 

"But,"  interjected  the  sister,  "that  won't  do; 
that  won't  hold  together  because  Frank  called 
me  up  on  the  telephone  a  few  moments  after 
he  returned  to  Chicago  and  I  told  him  I  didn't 
know  where  Fannie  was.  ..."  I  stopped  to 
think.  .  .  . 

"Then  we'll  have  to  make  the  telegram 
reach  you  immediately  after  he  telephoned  and, 
as  he  disappeared  so  abruptly  without  telling 
even  his  office  force  where  he  was  going,  you 
have  an  explanation  for  not  being  able  to  reach 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          231 

him.  .  .  .  Now,  about  the  Cleveland  week: 
you  didn't  know  that  your  sister  had  gone  away 
because  you  yourself  were  out  of  town.  I  be- 
lieve that  really  was  the  case,  was  it  not?" 

"Quite  true,"  replied  the  sister.  "I  was 
spending  a  few  days  at  Wheaton." 

"Then  so  far,  it  is  clear,  is  it  not?  .  .  .  Mr. 
Hartley  will  take  care  of  the  article  which  ap- 
peared in  the  Club  Window  .  .  .  and  if  your 
husband  arrives,  I'll  try  to  take  care  of  him. 
.  .  .  Now,  ...  let  us  think:  are  there  any 
points  we  have  overlooked?"  There  was  a  si- 
lence while  each  of  us  reviewed  the  situation. 
It  was  Mrs.  F.  who  spoke  first. 

"Suppose — suppose  Frank  has  set  detectives 
on  my  track  and  they  find  out  that  you've  not 
been  to  Cleveland!  O,  I'm  sure  he'll  do  it  I 
It's  just  like  Frank!  You  don't  know  what  a 
brute  he  can  be.  O,  it's  all  very  well  to  say 
that  I  am  to  blame — that  I  am  in  the  wrong, 
but  if  you  had  lived  with  Frank  for  eight  years 
as  I  have  you'd  understand  some  things — and 
not  treat  me  as  if  I  was  a " 

"Stop  that!"  I  felt  my  eyes  snap  with  the 
blaze  she  had  kindled.  She  snivelled  and  sob- 
bed a  bit,  then  relaxed  into  sullen  silence. 

"If  your  husband   has   employed  detectives 


232         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

we'll  have  to  meet  the  contingency  by  stand- 
ing together.  In  other  words  we'll  perjure 
ourselves  like — perfect  ladies.  Mr.  Hartley 
says — and  being  a  man  he  ought  to  know — 
that  no  man  would  have  the  courage  to  tell  me 
I  was  not  telling  the  truth,  even  if  he  thought 


so." 


"We'll  never  get  away  with  it — we'll  never 
get  away  with  it,"  wailed  Mrs.  F. 

It  was  the  sister  who  spoke  next. 

"And  suppose  Frank  does  not  show  up — sup- 
pose he  doesn't  come  at  all  but  waits  for  the 
detectives'  report  and " 

"And  begins  action  for  divorce  without  even 
saying  a  word  about  it!"  It  was  Madame 
who  interjected  this  possibility.  "Wouldn't  that 
be  just  like  him !  Wouldn't  that  be  Frank  just 
down  to  the  ground?  Edith  knows  how  cold- 
blooded he  is,  don't  you,  Edith?  O,  it's  too 
awful!  I  never  could  live  through  such  a 
thing!  I  wouldn't  live!  I'd  kill  myself — I'd 
throw  myself  into  the  lake !  I'd " 

"Don't  you  think  you  are  wearing  that 
threat  a  little  threadbare?"  I  asked 
quietly,  henceforth  addressing  myself  to  the 
sister. 

"In  the  event  that  your  brother-in-law  does 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          233 

not  come  or  that  we  hear  nothing  from  him, 
there  is  only  one  thing  left :  you  must  take  your 
sister  back  to  Chicago  .  .  .  and  I'll  go  with 
you.  .  .  ." 

I  believe  my  voice  petered  out  before  I  com- 
pleted the  sentence.  The  idea  was  repugnant, 
but  was  it  not  all  revolting  in  the  extreme? 
I  had  given  my  promise  to  Will  to  "see  it 
through"  and  I  intended  to  do  so  to  the  best 
of  my  ability.  Mrs.  F.'s  sister  broke  my  train 
of  thought.  She  stood  before  me  with  averted 
eyes  struggling  to  keep  back  the  tears,  and 
twisting  her  hands  nervously. 

"Mrs.  Hartley  ...  I  don't  want  to  appear 
maudlin  .  .  .  but  I  think  .  .  .  you  understand 
how  I  feel.  ...  It  seems  almost  inane  to  say 
.  .  .  how  much  we  ...  appreciate  what  you 
are  doing.  .  .  .  For  my  sister's  sake  I  thank 
you.  ...  I  ..." 

"I'm  not  doing  it  for  your  sister's  sake" — I 
tried  to  speak  gently  but  everything  in  me 
seemed  to  have  grown  hard  and  unyielding- — 
"nor  for  my  husband's  sake;  neither  for  my 
own;  I've  got  a  boy — a  son  .  .  .  and  there  are 
two  little  girls.  .  .  ." 

A  volley  of  sobs  smote  our  ears  and  shook 
the  bed. 


234         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

"My  poor  babies!  The  poor  darlings!  .  .  . 
I  wish  they  had  never  been  born!"  .  .  . 

"It's  too  bad  you  didn't  think  of  them  be- 
fore, Fannie,"  her  sister  answered  caustically. 
It  was  the  first  expression  of  censure  she  had 
voiced.  Mrs.  F.  bounced  to  a  sitting  position : 
yes,  bounced  is  the  only  adequate  description. 
Grief  had  made  a  quick  shift  to  anger.  She 
glared  at  her  sister. 

"So  you've  turned  against  me,  too,  have  you? 
I  might  have  expected  it:  that's  the  gratitude 
you  feel  for  all  I've  done  for  you.  Where 
would  you  be  if  it  were  not  for  me? — you'd  be 
pounding  somebody's  typewriter  for  five  dol- 
lars a  week !  This  is  the  thanks  I  get  for  sac- 
rificing myself  for  the  whole  family!  Every 
one  of  them  will  blame  me  for  the  whole  busi- 
ness. What  right  have  you  to  judge?  How 
does  anybody  know  what  I've  suffered  for  years 
living  with  that  man?  .  .  .  literally  starving 
for  affection,  ...  he  never  took  the  trouble 
to  understand  my  temperament  ...  he  neg- 
lected me,  he " 

"Hah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-"  ...  It  was  my  turn 
to  indulge  in  hysteria,  only  mine  was  of  the 
laughing  variety:  I  laughed  until  the  tears 
came — until  I  sank  back  from  sheer  exhaustion. 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          235 

From  their  expression  Madame  and  her  sister 
thought  I  had  gone  suddenly  mad. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?"  she  snapped, 
glaring  at  me  with  suppressed  rage. 

"My  dear,"  I  responded  feebly,  "my  dear, 
don't  you  realize  what  an  awful  old  chestnut 
that  neglected  wife  story  is?  Mr.  Hartley 
says  they  all  use  it  ...  it  is  the  cardinal  ex- 
cuse, the  subterfuge  all  married  women  resort 
to,  to  justify  their  own  infidelities." 

"Did — did  Mr.  Hartley  intimate ?" 

"O,  no !  Mr.  Hartley  betrayed  none  of  your 
confidences  .  .  .  but,  tell  me  honestly  .  .  ." 
— I  leaned  forward  and  clasped  my  knees  to 
better  accentuate  my  words — "do  you  really 
expect  a  man  of  the  world  to  believe  that — or 
care  whether  you  are  neglected  or  not?  You 
know  that  men  gossip  and  bandy  women's 
names  about  their  clubs — not  in  so  many  damn- 
ing words,  but  with  a  knowing  wink,  a  shrug 
of  the  shoulder,  this  head-shake,  or,  'by  pro- 
nouncing some  doubtful  phrase  ...  or  such 
ambiguous  giving  out'  .  .  .  my  dear  ...  I 
have  a  rare  collection  of  mash-notes  which  my 
actor-husband  has  from  time  to  time  tossed 
laughingly  into  my  lap.  Their  character  varies 
like  the  colour  of  the  paper  on  which  they  are 


236         MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

written.  There  is  the  white,  the  pale  blue,  and 
several  shades  of  lavender.  .  .  .  The  actor's 
world  is  full  of  lavender  ladies  of  the  Bovary 
type :  the  wonder  of  it  is  that  so  many  of  them 
'get  away  with  it7  as  you  have  so  elegantly  ex- 
pressed it.  Suppose  you  don't  get  away  with 
it  ...  suppose  your  husband  divorces  you 
.  .  .  what  will  become  of  you?  How  will  you 
live?  You're  not  equipped  to  make  your  own 
living.  You  couldn't  even  typewrite — like  your 
sister.  Suppose  I  were  to  divorce  my  husband, 
naming  you  as  co-respondent:  do  you  flatter 
yourself  he  would  marry  you?  And  let  us  as- 
sume that  he  did:  How  long  do  you  think  it 
would  last?  He  is  a  poor  man.  His  profes- 
sion is  a  purely  speculative  one.  His  income 
is  assured  for  only  two  weeks  at  a  time,  ex- 
cept in  rare  instances.  He  couldn't  give  you 
the  jewels,  the  furs,  the  motors  and  the  luxuries 
you  now  enjoy.  How  long  do  you  believe  your 
mad  passion  would  endure,  stripped  of  little 
appurtenances  like  wine  suppers  and  suites  of 
rooms  in  the  best  hotels?  .  .  .  Perhaps  you'd 
become  an  actress  like  so  many  women  who 
look  on  the  stage  as  an  open  sesame  to  a  life  of 
immorality.  .  .  .  Like  so  many  women  with  a 
screw  loose  in  their  moral  machinery  .  .  .  no, 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND         237 

don't  you  say  a  word !  This  is  my  scene — and 
I  am  going  to  hold  the  centre  of  the  stage  for 
once  in  my  career !  .  .  .  I  know  your  kind,  mi- 
lady. .  .  .  You  belong  to  that  great  class  of 
over-fed  and  under-bred  women  who  make  life 
so  hard  for  the  rest  of  their  sex.  You're  one 
of  the  wasters ;  you  waste  what  does  not  right- 
fully belong  to  you;  what  you  usurp  in  your 
greediness,  in  your  pandering  to  your  vanities, 
in  your  compromise  with  your  better  instincts, 
in  your  connivance  with  the  very  devil  who 
finds  some  mischief  still  for  idle  hands  to  do ! 
You  stimulate  your  passions  with  alcohol  and 
mistake  the  fumes  for  love !  You  haven't  the 
courage  to  come  out  and  be  a  genuine  prosti- 
tute, but  you  ply  the  trade  in  the  role  of  an 
adulteress.  For  God's  sake,  wake  up!  Look 
yourself  in  the  eyes  before  it  is  too  late!  If 
you  have  no  self-respect,  no  respect  for  your 
sex,  try  at  least  to  respect  the  rights  of  those 
little  souls  you've  brought  into  the  world  with- 
out their  asking.  O,  yes,  cry !  .  .  .  Crocodile 
tears  and  alcoholic  drool !  .  .  .  It's  a  mistake 
to  believe  that  all  women  have  the  maternal  in- 
stinct ...  so  have  female  cats  and  dogs — and 
rabbits."  .  .  . 

I  had  risen  as  my  fury  sought  to  master  me. 


238          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

I  stood  beside  the  bed  looking  down  at  her 
.  .  .  making  an  ineffectual  last-ditch  fight  for 
my  self-control.  Something  about  the  woman 
.  .  .  the  very  quality  of  her  night-dress — the 
heavily  jewelled  fingers — maddened  me.  The 
poison  coursed  through  my  veins  like  quick- 
silver .  .  .  once  before  in  my  life  I  had  felt 
it  ...  before  my  boy  was  born  .  .  .  then  I 
had  succumbed  to  a  desire  to  wreak  physical 
vengeance  .  .  .  the  same  madness  seized  me 
now  ...  I  saw  her  shrink  from  me.  .  .  . 

«O,  you— you 1" 

.  .  I  didn't  say  it;  I  caught  myself  in  time. 
The  blood  stained  my  face  with  shame — shame 
with  the  very  coarseness  of  the  thought ;  shame 
with  the  whole  revolting  situation.  Was  I, 
too,  become  impregnated  with  the  corroding  in- 
fluence of  my  environment?  I  turned  and 
walked  toward  the  door.  As  I  reached  for 
the  knob,  it  opened  and  some  one  entered  ab- 
ruptly. I  jumped  aside  to  avoid  being  struck. 

I  knew  who  he  was  though  I  had  never  seen 
him  before.  The  next  moment  I  had  reached 
for  his  hand  and  grasped  it  impulsively,  at  the 
same  time  laying  a  warning  finger  on  my  lips 
and  indicating  the  bed. 

"O,  Mr.  F.,  you  don't  know  how  glad  I  am 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          239 

to  see  you.  We've  been  worried  to  death  .  .  . 
she's  asleep  now,  after  the  most  racking  night 
...  do  you  mind  not  waking  her  for  the  pres- 
ent? ...  of  course  if  you'd  rather  ..."  I 
waited  while  he  looked  at  the  figure  of  his  wife, 
lying  helpless  with  her  face  to  the  wall,  while 
his  eyes  roved  to  question  those  of  the  sister, 
then  back  to  mine  with  the  single  word: 

"Sick?  .  .  .  How  long  has  she  been  sick?" 
"Ever  since  we  arrived  here;  it's  the  grippe, 
I  think,  though  we  couldn't  induce  her  to  see 
a  doctor.  She's  been  so  upset  at  not  hearing 
from  you.  .  .  .  Do  you  mind  stepping  into 
the  hall  where  we  can  talk  more  freely  without 
danger  of  disturbing  her?  .  .  .  Edith  will  call 

us  if  she  awakens,  won't  you,  Edith?"  .  .  . 
****** 

Edith  did  not  call.  The  hall  was  draughty; 
I  managed  a  sneeze.  Mr.  F.  suggested  that 
we  go  down  to  the  grill  and  have  a  drink.  In 
the  elevator  I  saw  him  glance  furtively  at  me. 
.  .  .  I  was  humming  softly  to  myself.  I 
watched  his  eyes  in  the  mirror;  they  had  a  con- 
fused look  not  unmixed  with  suspicion.  Not 
until  after  the  second  cocktail  did  he  thaw  a 
bit.  He  asked  me  whether  I  had  dined.  I  told 
him  I  had  not.  After  he  had  ordered,  he 


240         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  gave  me  a  pene- 
trating look.  I  met  his  eyes  and  smiled  a 
little. 

"You  look  tired,"  I  said. 

"I  am — rather.  These  sleeper  jumps  take  it 
out  of  a  fellow." 

"They  surely  do  ...  and  I  presume  you've 
been  worried  to  death  about  Fannie."  The 
name  slipped  glibly  from  my  lips.  He  shot  me 
a  quick  glance  which  told  me  the  familiar  use 
of  his  wife's  name  had  been  effective.  He 
shifted  uneasily  in  his  seat  as  he  answered. 

"Well,  yes " 

"We  have  been  fairly  living  on  the  long  dis- 
tance telephone  trying  to  reach  you.  What  on 
earth  was  the  trouble?  Edith  received  Fannie's 
telegram  a  minute  after  you  called  her  up  and 
when  she  tried  to  reach  you — well,  she  couldn't, 
that's  all.  .  .  ." 

"There  was  something  the  matter  with  the 
connection  .  .  .  it's  been  off  for  several  days 
.  .  ."  he  replied. 

"Of  course  we  could  have  telegraphed  but 
we  didn't  want  to  alarm  you,"  I  went  on,  meet- 
ing his  own  brave  lie  with  another.  "As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact  I  think  we  all  were  more  scared  than 
hurt.  Fannie  had  had  a  cold  while  we  were 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          241 

still  in  Chicago — that's  a  trying  climate  in  the 
winter.  Then  when  we  reached  Cleveland, 
there  wasn't  much  of  an  improvement  in  the 
matter  of  weather  and  I  felt  a  bit  guilty  in 
having  urged  her  to  go  with  us."  I  toyed  with 
the  celery  and  wiped  off  imaginary  soot. 

"Were  you  in  Cleveland  ?" 

I  looked  up  at  him  in  mild  surprise. 

"Why,  of  course.  It  was  at  my  invitation 
that  Fannie  accompanied  us.  She  was  bored 
to  death  in  Chicago  ...  it  must  be  deadly 
monotonous — this  same  routine  day  after  day 
.  .  .  the  same  faces  and  nothing  new  to  talk 
about.  .  .  .  You  know — you  know  if  you  were 
my  husband  I  shouldn't  let  you  run  away  on 
hunting  trips  and  leave  me  behind.  ...  I 
don't  think  you  men  realize  how  stupid  it  be- 
comes with  no  change  of  menu  —  as  it 
were.  .  .  ." 

I  reproved  him  with  a  smile.  For  the  first 
time  his  eyes  sent  back  a  glint  of  warmth. 

"How  long  have  you  known  Fannie?  It's 
odd  that  I've  never — had  the  pleasure  of  meet- 
ing you  before."  (The  pleasure  was  an  after- 
thought.) 

"O  .  .  .  I've  known  Fannie  for  ...  let 
me  see  .  .  .  nearly  three  years.  ..."  (I  made 


242         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

a  mental  note  of  this  for  "Fannie's"  benefit.) 
"We  met  when  Will  played  Chicago  two  sea- 
sons since.  We  took  quite  a  fancy  to  each 
other,  and  last  winter  when  she  came  to  New 
York  we  went  about  together  and  became  quite 
good  friends.  ...  I  presume  you  were  away 
on  one  of  your  hunting  trips  last  winter  .  .  . 
naughty  sir  ...  that's  the  reason  I  didn't 
meet  you.  .  .  .  This  trip  I  brought  Boy  to 
Chicago.  .  .  .  You  haven't  seen  my  young  son, 
have  you  ?  You  must  make  his  acquaintance  to- 
morrow. We're  most  awfully  vain  about  him 
.  .  .  think  he's  the  only  boy  in  the  world.  I 
suppose  you  feel  that  way  about  your  little 
girls  .  .  .  they  are  beauties.  They've  got  your 
eyes,  though  they  have  inherited  Fannie's  regu- 
lar features.  .  .  ." 

Would  my  tongue  never  stop  wagging? 
What  manner  of  woman  had  I  suddenly  be- 
come? I  did  not  recognize  myself.  Was  it 
a  case  of  self-hypnosis  and  was  I  really  feeling 
the  interest  and  friendliness  I  pretended?  He 
was  not  precisely  an  Adonis;  there  was  some- 
thing rough,  almost  uncouth,  about  him  in  spite 
of  the  veneer  his  money  had  brought.  But  there 
was  a  kindliness,  a  wholesouledness  that  made 
itself  felt.  Under  any  other  conditions  I 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          243 

should  have  liked  him.  ...  I  saw  him  look  at 
his  watch. 

"What  time  is  it?  ...  The  performance 
will  soon  be  over  and  Mr.  Hartley  will  won- 
der where  I  am.  .  .  .  Wouldn't  he  be  sur- 
prised to  walk  in  here  and  see  me  dining  with 
a  strange  man?  ...  I  hope  you're  not  afraid 
of  getting  yourself  talked  about.  .  .  ." 

"No,  I  guess  not,"  he  laughed  back.  I  was 
silent  for  a  time,  while  I  wrestled  with  the 
breast  of  a  squab.  I  felt  his  eyes  upon 
me.  When  I  looked  at  him  I  saw  that  he 
was  revolving  something  in  his  mind,  and 
I  sensed  the  subject.  I  gave  him  time  to 
think  it  over.  After  a  while  I  leaned  back  in 
my  chair. 

"I'm  sorry  to  confess  it,  but  I'm  beginning 
to  feel  a  bit  tired,"  I  sighed.  "Even  your 
genial  presence  will  not  keep  my  eyes  open 
much  longer.  .  .  .  Edith  I'm  sure  is  feeling  the 
strain,  too.  Well,  we'll  all  sleep  better  to- 
night— after  our  worry.  'All's  well  that  ends 
well' — and  that  reminds  me — my  husband  and 
I  were  admiring  a  set  of  Shakespeare  you  have 
in  your  library." 

"Um — yes;  I  remember  it.  I  bought  it  for 
the  binding.  Don't  believe  I  ever  saw  the  in- 


244         MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

side  of  it.  .  .  ."  He  freshened  my  glass  of 
wine. 

"You're  not  much  of  a  drinker,  are  you?" 

"Haven't  got  brains  enough  to  stand  it,"  I 
answered  flippantly. 

He  laughed;  it  had  a  true  ring  to  it. 

The  game  was  in  my  hands. 

"I  guess  you  mean  you've  got  brains  enough 
to  withstand  it." 

Would  the  dinner  never  come  to  an  end?  I 
thought.  My  body  seemed  to  grow  old  with 
the  minutes.  At  last  the  waiter  cleared  the 
table.  When  he  had  gone  for  a  liqueur,  Mr.  F. 
took  some  letters  from  his  pocket.  From  the 
packet  he  selected  a  piece  of  printed  matter. 
He  laid  it  face  down  upon  the  table  while  he 
replaced  the  letters.  Then  he  looked  at  me, 
drumming  with  his  fingers  over  the  spot  where 
the  clipping  lay.  The  waiter  returned.  Mr. 
F.  drained  the  cognac  glass  and  called  for  an- 
other. While  it  was  being  brought  he  folded 
his  arms  upon  the  table  and  leaned  toward 
me. 

"I  wonder  whether  I'd  better  show  you 
something.  .  .  ." 

I  assumed  the  same  attitude;  it  was  condu- 
cive to  confidence. 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          245 

"Show  me  what?" 

His  drumming  became  louder. 

"No,  I  guess  I  won't!"  .  .  . 

"Now,  I  call  that  unkind — to  pique  my  curi- 
osity and  leave  me  suspended  in  mid-air." 

He  folded  the  clipping  and  rattled  it  between 
his  fingers. 

"Is  that  what  you  were  going  to  show  me? 
Wait  a  moment."  ...  I  leaned  toward  him  to 
better  examine  the  paper,  then  relaxed  against 
the  back  of  the  chair  and  smiled. 

"I  think  I  know  what  it  is.  ...  Will  you 
lay  me  a  wager?  What  will  you  wager  that  I 
can  .guess  what  that  paper  is  the  very  first 
time?" 

He  sprawled  and  tilted  back  his  chair  good- 
naturedly. 

"O,  I'll  bet  you  a  box  of  candy  or  a  bunch 
of  violets." 

"A  five-pound  box  of  candy — I  don't  like 
violets.  Agreed?" 

He  nodded. 

"It's  a  clipping  from  the  Club  Window.  .  .  ." 

"Then  you've  seen  it?" 

"Of  course  I've  seen  it,  silly  man — hasn't 
everybody  seen  it?  And  wasn't  my  Willy  furi- 
ously angry?  He  wanted  to  take  the  first  train 


246         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

back  to  Chicago  and  clear  out  the  whole  estab- 
lishment. It  was  all  Fannie  and  I  could  do  to 
calm  him.  .  .  .  He  said  he  was  going  to  see 
you  about  it  because  he  thought  you  and  he 
should  get  together  and  take  some  kind  of  ac- 
tion against  the  slanderous  sheet.  I  tell  him 
he's  foolish  to  pay  any  attention  to  it;  just  let 
it  die  of  inanition.  Don't  you  think  so?" 

"Well,  I  was  a  little  upset  myself  when  I 
read  it.  I  didn't  know  what  the  devil  to 
think.  .  .  ." 

"Well,  I  know  you've  got  too  much  sense  to 
believe  anything  wrong  about  your  wife.  .  .  . 
I  can  appreciate  how  you  and  Will  feel  about  it 
and  that  you'd  like  to  make  them  retract — but 
— isn't  it  best  to  ignore  it? — so  long  as  we 
know  it's  a  malicious  lie.  .  .  .  It's  a  shocking 
thing  the  way  the  press  in  this  country  construes 
license  for  freedom.  .  .  .  The  libel  laws  are 
wholly  inadequate.  They  manage  that  sort  of 
thing  much  better  in  England.  .  .  .  There  are 
so  many  evil-minded  people  in  the  world — 
don't  you  find  it  so?" 

"Well,  I  confess,  there's  always  somebody 
hanging  around  anxious  to  disseminate  gossip, 
though  I've  never  observed  any  of  them  help- 
ing along  the  nice  things  you  hear." 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          247 

"Now  that  we  are  on  the  subject,  I'll  tell 
you  how  this  happened;  the  woman  who  con- 
cocted that  libellous  attack  is  an  ugly  perverted 
creature — she  must  be  perverted  or  she  would 
not  be  earning  her  livelihood  in  such  a  ques- 
tionable way,  don't  you  think  so?  Several 
years  ago  when  she  met  my  husband  she  vol- 
unteered to  write  some  nice  little  personalia 
about  him.  He  wasn't  as  well  known  then  as 
now  and  every  little  bit  helps,  you  know.  .  .  „ 
Well,  Will  kept  up  a  desultory  acquaintance 
with  the  woman  and  saw  her  from  time  to  time. 
She  was  in  New  York  when  Fannie  was  there 
last  winter,  by  the  way.  I  don't  know  just  how 
it  came  about,  but  the  spinster  scribbler  devel- 
oped a  jealous  streak  and  upbraided  Will  for 
being  ungrateful  for  all  she  had  done  for  him. 
I'm  sure  she  could  not  have  done  a  great  deal 
for  anyone  in  a  wretched  paper  like  the  Club 
Window.  To  tell  you  the  truth  she  was  in- 
fatuated with  Will.  To  use  his  own  words — 
she  made  a  play  for  him  and  he  threw  her 
down  hard!  Mr.  Hartley  is  not  given  to  that 
sort  of  thing — and  if  he  were — you  may  be 
sure  I  should  have  something  to  say  about  it." 
I  nodded  sententiously. 

"Yes,   I  guess  you'd  make  it  pretty  warm 


248          MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

for  any  poacher  on  your  preserves !"  We  both 
laughed.  I  believe  I  even  jerked  my  head  pert- 
ly to  mark  my  cocksureness.  And,  as  I  turned 
away,  my  eyes  settled  upon  Will.  He  was 
standing  in  the  doorway,  evidently  having  just 
entered,  since  he  still  wore  his  overcoat  and 
carried  his  hat  in  his  hand.  I  half-rose.  My 
host  followed  my  move. 

"It's  Will — it's  Mr.  Hartley  .  .  .  come  in, 
Will.  ..."  I  beckoned  to  him  and  stole  a 
glance  at  Mr.  F.  No,  there  was  no  hesitation 
on  his  part.  He  rose  and  crossed  to  meet  Will 
with  outstretched  hand.  My  hand  shook  so 
that  I  could  hardly  raise  the  wine  glass  to  my 
lips.  I  drained  the  last  drop  and  sank  into  my 

chair.    The  game  was  won.  .  .  . 

****** 

It  was  nearly  an  hour  later  when  I  rose  to 
leave  the  table.  Will  had  eaten  the  supper 
which  Mr.  F.  had  insisted  upon  ordering  and 
they  were  still  calling  for  wine.  I  had  steered 
the  conversation  clear  of  the  perilous  rocks  and 
felt  that  I  could  now  safely  leave  the  two  men 
together.  They  rose  with  me. 

"I'm  sorry  to  leave  such  delightful  company 
— I  believe  I  said  something  like  that  an  hour 
ago,  did  I  not,  Mr.  F.?  .  .  .  I  want  to  drop 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          249 

in  on  Edith  and  make  my  peace  with  her.  I 
fear  she'll  feel  neglected.  If  you  require  my 
services  during  the  night  please  don't  hesitate 
to  ring  me  up,  though  I  feel  sure  Fannie  will 
be  ever  so  much  better  now  that  you've  arrived. 
I  presume  you  two  gentlemen  want  to  talk 
things  over — that  wretched  slander,  I  mean — 
only — "  and  at  this  point  I  assumed  a  mock- 
serious  attitude — "don't  do  anything  until  you 
hear  from  me,  will  you?  .  .  .  Now,  please 
don't  move.  .  .  .  I'll  find  my  way.  .  .  .  Good- 
night, sir  .  .  .  and  don't  forget  that  you  owe 
me  five  pounds  of  the  best  candy  in  Cincinnati." 

When  I  reached  Mrs.  F.'s  room,  her  sister 
had  already  opened  the  door.  She  had  heard 
the  elevator  stop  and  was  waiting.  The  girl's 
face  was  drawn  and  the  circles  under  the  eyes 
had  deepened.  Mrs.  F.,  too,  showed  the  strain 
of  waiting. 

"Mr.  F.  and  my  husband  are  downstairs; 
they  were  exchanging  funny  stories  when  I  left 
.  .  .  there  will  be  no  pistols — nor  a  divorce  on 
this  count  .  .  .  now,  if  you  have  another  spell 
of  hysterics  I  think  I  shall  kill  you.  .  .  .  Edith 
...  we  had  better  begin  calling  each  other 
'dearie'  and  that  sort  of  thing  to  accustom  our- 
selves, for  we've  known  each  other  three  years 


250         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

.  .  .  please  repeat  it  after  me  so  that  you  won't 
forget  it.  ...  Edith,  should  you  mind  pour- 
ing me  a  dose  of  Fannie's  valerian?  ...  I 
think  I  took  a  wee  drop  too  much  .  .  .  my 
teeth  arc  fairly  chattering  .  .  .  now  let  me 
think.  .  .  .  I'll  begin  at  the  moment  we  left 
the  room  together  .  .  .  please  don't  interrupt 
unless  there  is  something  you  do  not  grasp  .  .  . 

he  may  come  at  any  moment.  .  .  ." 

****** 

I  went  to  the  telephone  directly  I  entered  my 
room  and  called  for  the  room  clerk.  I  told 
him  I  wanted  another  room  on  the  same  floor. 
While  I  waited  for  the  bell-boy  to  bring  the 
key  I  wrote  a  note  and  pinned  it  on  the  mirror 
where  it  would  attract  Will's  attention.  "I 
have  gone  to  another  room.  Don't  disturb 
me,  please.  We'll  talk  it  over  tomorrow." 

When  I  had  turned  the  key  in  the  lock  and 
had  surveyed  my  own  domain  I  felt  strangely 
light  in  the  head.  I  opened  a  window  and  me- 
chanically arranged  my  toilet  articles.  Then 
I  disrobed,  unpinned  my  hair  and  cleansed  my 
face  with  cold  cream.  At  least,  I  assume  that 
I  did  all  these,  for  the  next  day,  when  I  awoke 
to  consciousness,  everything  was  in  place,  my 
hair  was  braided  in  two  pig-tails,  and  my  face 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          251 

still  showed  traces  of  cold  cream.  From  the 
moment  I  had  locked  myself  in  I  had  no  recol- 
lection of  what  followed.  The  doctor  called 


it  "syncope." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

"St.  Louis,  Mo.,  March  loth. 
"Darling  Girl: 

"I  am  taking  for  granted  that  you  arrived  safely. 
There  has  been  no  word  from  you  since  you  returned 
home  a  week  since.  I  hope  you  found  the  apartment 
in  good  shape  and  that  things  did  not  suffer  too  much 
wear  and  tear  at  the  hands  of  our  late  tenants. 

"Just  as  I  predicted,  the  folks  were  much  disap- 
pointed at  not  seeing  you  here.  There  was  a  regular 
family  reunion.  Grandma  Murray  came  on  from  In- 
dianapolis and  two  of  my  paternal  aunts  all  the  way 
from  Kansas.  As  none  of  the  relatives  has  ever  seen 
Boy  you  may  imagine  how  disappointed  they  were. 
However,  it  couldn't  be  helped.  Naturally  I  did  not 
tell  them  that  you  had  been  to  Cincinnati.  I  let 
them  infer  that  you  were  not  sufficiently  recovered 
from  the  effects  of  your  recent  operation  to  permit 
your  making  the  trip.  I  fully  appreciate  the  state  of 
your  nerves  and  that  a  relapse  was  inevitable;  just 
the  same  I  think  you  should  write  me  and  keep  me 
informed  of  your  condition.  Take  it  quietly  for  a  few 
weeks  and  you'll  come  out  all  right.  Don't  let  that 
Cincinnati  affair  prey  on  your  mind:  a  little  later 
when  your  health  is  better,  you  won't  take  it  so  se- 

252 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND         253 

riously.  Now  don't  jump  at  the  conclusion  that  I 
don't  appreciate  the  way  you  played  up,  or  the  nar- 
row escape  I  have  had.  You  may  feel  sure  that 
sort  of  thing  will  never  happen  again.  And  that  re- 
minds me:  I  had  a  letter  from  Mr.  F.  saying  he 
had  consulted  his  lawyer  about  taking  action  against 
the  Club  Window  and  had  been  advised  to  let  the 
matter  drop.  (Requiescat  in  pace!)  He  wished  to  be 
remembered  to  you. 

"The  weather  is  depressing.  I'm  not  feeling  up  to 
my  standard.  I  suspect  I  have  been  eating  too  much 
and  exercising  too  little.  Well,  Girlie,  the  train 
leaves  in  an  hour  and  I  have  still  some  odds  and 
ends  to  look  after.  I  enclose  our  route  to  follow 
Kansas  City.  Now  write  me  at  once  or  I  shall  begin 
to  worry  about  you.  A  bunch  of  kisses  to  Boy  from 
his  Dad,  reserving  all  you  want  for  yourself,  of 
course. 

"With  all  my  love, 

"Your  devoted  husband, 

"WILL." 

THIS  letter  was  a  week  old.  I  had  made 
several  attempts  to  answer  it  but  all  had  ended 
in  the  waste-basket.  Following  my  home-com- 
ing, I  had  been  glad  to  lie  quietly  in  bed  in 
obedience  to  the  doctor's  orders.  A  heavy  in- 
ertia lay  upon  me.  My  nights  were  an  amor- 
phous jumble  of  improbable  situations;  I  awoke 
of  mornings  with  a  nausea  at  heart.  My  mind 
was  furred  with  unpleasant  memories.  It  re- 


254         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

volved  in  circles.  The  more  I  thought  the 
faster  it  whirled,  resulting  in  complete  confu- 
sion. Inner  adjustment  seemed  impossible.  I 
realized  in  a  hazy  way  that  I  must  arouse  my- 
self or  fall  a  prey  to  melancholia.  Even  Boy's 
laughter  as  it  was  wafted  to  me  from  another 
room  unleashed  a  thousand  apprehensions. 
The  effulgence  his  being  had  shed  into  my  life 
was  now  dimmed  by  fears  for  his  future. 
Should  I  be  able  to  steer  his  craft,  even  launch 
it  safely,  preparedly  on  the  turbulent  sea  of 
life?  It  was,  probably,  in  the  very  nature  of 
things  that  I  should  exclude  my  husband  from 
any  participation  in  my  plans  for  the  child.  A 
fierce,  almost  a  defiant,  sense  of  proprietary 
right  began  to  assert  itself  in  relation  to  our 
son.  The  inertia  gave  way  to  a  state  of  tur- 
bulence, which  burned  like  a  consuming  fever. 
To  Will's  numerous  letters  and  enquiries  I  at 
last  responded  by  telegraph,  UA11  well,"  I 
said. 

One  day  there  came  a  bulky  envelope  ad- 
dressed in  Will's  handwriting.  It  enclosed  a 
letter  from  John  Gailbraith,  the  sculptor,  who 
was  still  in  Paris.  Across  the  top  Will  had 
written:  "This  will  interest  you."  Under 
separate  cover  came  a  package  of  photographs, 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND         255 

reproductions  of  the  colossal  work  he  had  re- 
cently completed  for  the  Spring  Exhibition  at 
the  Salon. 

"I  have  great  hopes  for  this,"  he  wrote.  "(Hope  is 
always  promise-crammed,  isn't  it?)  You  will  see 
that  I  have  called  it  'Super-Creation.'  It  was  con- 
ceived like  a  lightning  flash  but  the  working  out, 
the  compelling  cold,  hard  stone  to  express  clearly 
what  I  intended  to  convey  is  the  result  of  a  dogged 
grind  of  nearly  three  years'  incessant  toil.  Have  I 
succeeded,  do  you  think?  Of  course  you  have  not 
seen  the  original,  but  the  photographs  are  excellent 
work,  having  been  taken  at  various  angles  and  posi- 
tions and  under  my  supervision.  You  will  observe 
that  the  work  is — well,  nothing  short  of  monumental 
will  express  it.  And,  unless  a  government  or  an  in- 
stitution is  moved  to  buy  it,  I  shall  probably  have  to 
build  a  house  around  it!  However,  I'm  not  discour- 
aged though  I've  gone  in  debt  for  years  to  come  and 
mortgaged  almost  my  soul  in  order  to  get  the  where- 
withal to  complete  the  work.  I  suppose  this  is  what 
you  call  'the  artistic  temperament.'  But  I  simply  had 
to  do  it — I  had  to  get  it  out  of  my  system  and  in 
doing  so  I  feel  that  I  have  lived  up  to  the  best  that 
was  in  me.  After  all  there  is  some  consolation  in  the 
thought  that  one  has  lived  up  to  one's  best  instincts. 
How  goes  your  own  work?  And  your  missus?  Ask 
her  to  write  me  and  tell  me  without  circumlocution 
what  she  thinks  of  my  effort,  especially  the  concep- 
tion on  the  whole.  I  should  like  to  have  discussed 


256         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

it  with  her  and  to  have  had  her  opinion  in  the  making. 
Over  here  one  gets  only  the  one-sided  opinion  of  one's 
confreres  or  the  unimaginative  view-point  of  a  few 
moneyed  Americans  who  want  names  (BIG  TYPE) 
to  fill  up  the  bare  wall-spaces.  ...  I  should  like 
to  ask  your  wife  whether  she  is  pursuing  her  work 
in  earnest  or  whether  like  so  many  lady  dilettantes 
she  is  only  amusing  herself.  .  .  .  How  I  should 
like  to  see  you  both  here  this  coming  summer!  Is 
it  not  possible?  I'll  turn  over  my  menage  to  you  if 
that  is  an  inducement.  Let  me  hear  from  you  soon 
and  send  me  the  latest  picture  of  the  son  and  heir. 
"Yours  fraternally, 

"J-  G." 

I  had  thrilled  at  the  mere  suggestion  of  a 
trip  abroad  but  relegated  the  thought  to  a  back- 
ground of  remote  probabilities  and  gave  my- 
self up  to  an  eager  contemplation  of  the  photo- 
graphic reproductions  of  the  sculptor's  work. 
Following  the  numbers  indicated  on  the  back 
of  each,  I  arranged  the  photographs  consecu- 
tively across  the  wall. 

The  form  appeared  to  be  a  kind  of  spiral, 
each  step  or  incline  complete  in  itself  yet  sug- 
gesting a  connecting  thread.  At  first  glance  I 
was  struck  with  the  multiplicity  of  figures,  all 
nearly  life  size.  But  as  my  eagerness  gave  way 
to  soberer  perspective,  something  I  had  over- 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND         257 

looked  now  asserted  itself:  In  the  score  of 
characters  represented  there  were  but  two 
faces — that  of  one  man  and  one  woman! 
That  is  to  say,  the  two  faces  were  repro- 
duced .  .  .  yet  ...  or  did  one's  fancy 
play  at  tricks?  ...  I  applied  the  magnifying 
glass.  .  .  .  Yes,  there  were  but  two  faces,  both 
repeatedly  used  by  the  artist,  but  with  what 
wondrous  and  illuminating  difference!  Start- 
ing from  the  left  and  lowest  plane — symbolic 
of  the  theme — there  was  embodied  in  the 
figures  of  the  man  and  maid  the  lowest  form 
of  love.  .  .  .  The  youthful  prettiness  of  the 
girl,  the  soft  roundness  of  her  form,  the  maid- 
en breast  ...  all  these  but  accentuated  the 
undeveloped  soul.  Her  very  attitude,  the 
abandon  as  she  lay  smiling,  half-hid  amongst 
the  leaves  and  blooms  .  .  .  here,  indeed,  was 
"a  parley  to  provocation."  .  .  .  Above  her 
towered  the  figure  of  a  man.  In  his  spare, 
sinewy  form,  conscient  of  its  strength,  vibrant 
with  sex,  the  young  male  was  epitomized.  .  .  . 
"Instinct"  need  not  be  carved  across  the  base. 
.  .  .  Instinct,  the  first  and  lowest  form  of  love. 
From  the  grassy  knoll  the  path  ascended 
to  a  rocky  promontory,  bleak,  arid.  Straining 
'gainst  the  fury  of  the  storm,  the  man  and 


258          MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

woman  climbed;  his  muscles  tense,  confusion 
limned  upon  his  face ;  the  woman,  crouching  in 
her  fright,  hiding  her  face  in  her  wind-tossed 
hair;  while  underfoot  they  trampled  on  a  mask, 
the  leering  mask  of  former  self  .  .  .  and, 
riding  on  the  wind,  half  cloud,  half  god,  a 
phantom  with  veiled  face  laid  on  the  lash. 
*  .  .  Confusion.  .  .  .  Chaos.  .  .  . 

The  path  led  on  and  up  through  thorny  un- 
derbrush; a  parched  earth;  the  cactus  plant; 
some  blanched  bones,  a  horned  toad.  He  stood 
apart  with  sullen  mien;  his  features  thick  and 
brutalized;  his  muscles  lax  and  loose,  as  if  im- 
potent rage  had  yielded  to  dumb  apathy.  The 
woman,  lying  prone,  distorted  with  revolt  and 
fright,  seeking  to  shut  out  from  view  the  hide- 
ous deformity  at  her  breast — half  man,  half 
beast;  its  clenched  fists,  contorted  legs  raised  to 
rebel;  the  grotesque  mask  miming  its  own  de- 
spair. And  in  the  background,  poised  on  abyss- 
edge,  a  Hecate  band  whirled  in  orgy-dance. 
.  .  .  Where  is  the  tutelary  goddess  now — the 
Better  Self,  the  Soul  of  Things?  And  even  as 
I  asked  I  followed  in  the  path  which,  still  in- 
clining, reached  a  broad  plateau.  In  the  fore- 
ground, the  man — gaunt  and  grim — the  grim- 
ness  of  despair;  his  muscles  knotted,  his  horny 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          259 

hands,  the  poised  axe.  Through  the  matted 
woods  a  skulking  wolf.  .  .  .  Beyond,  the  wom- 
an; haggard  of  face,  drawn  with  fatigue;  no 
longer  full  and  round  of  form.  Dropping 
seeds  on  fresh-tilled  earth;  a  living  burden  on 
her  back;  around  her  neck  two  chubby  arms. 
And  at  the  entrance  to  the  cave,  half  blended 
with  the  rocks,  the  Inscrutable  One  stood 
guard.  .  .  .  "The  Will  to  Live"  was  written 
here.  .  .  . 

The  path  winds  on,  steeper,  more  tortuous 
still;  by  cliffs,  abyss,  impasse,  bald  peaks,  the 
Mount  is  reached  .  .  .  and  here  they  rest.  .  .  . 
Like  complements  they  stand,  hand  clasping 
hand,  looking  out  and  beyond;  serene  of  brow, 
though  scarred  with  age.  An  august  peace,  the 
harvest  yield.  A  straight  firm  youth  hangs  on 
his  mother's  arm  .  .  .  and  in  that  life  is  blent 
the  best  of  both — the  purpose  of  the  race.  The 
mantle  of  the  clouds  half  moulds  a  form;  the 
hands  reach  forth  to  stroke  their  eyes.  .  .  . 
It  is  the  awakening.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER   XV 

WHEN  Experience  came  in  some  time  later, 
bringing  a  cup  of  chicken  broth,  she  found  me 
at  my  writing  desk.  Commenting  on  my  flushed 
cheeks,  she  urged  me  back  to  bed.  But  a  fever- 
ish energy  had  seized  upon  me:  to  work,  to 
accomplish,  to  be  independent  of  another's 
maintenance.  There  was  a  prescience  that  in 
the  not  far  distant  future  I  should  have  need 
of  such  resource,  materially  and  spiritually.  I 
shook  off  the  foreboding  as  a  connotation  of 
my  physical  condition.  To  take  my  place  in 
the  world's  work  was  the  grandiose  euphemism 
with  which  I  lulled  my  uneasiness.  That  same 
night  I  unearthed  my  working  kit  from  the 
closet  in  which  it  had  been  stored.  One  of  the 
rooms  of  our  apartment  bearing  the  honorary 
title  of  "boudoir"  had  a  southern  exposure, 
and,  as  we  were  on  the  first  floor  nearest 
heaven,  the  light  was  good  even  on  gloomy 
days,  which  abounded  at  this  season  of  the  year. 
I  shall  never  forget  the  sense  of  exhilaration 
260 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          261 

with  which  I  cleared  the  decks  for  action.  It 
was  as  if  some  great  force  had  breathed  the 
vital  impetus  into  my  nostrils.  When  I  had 
donned  my  brown  overall-apron  I  paused  and 
inhaled,  deep  and  long.  It  was  the  first  free 
breath  I  had  drawn  for  weeks. 

In  reviewing  the  busts  I  had  made  of  Boy 
while  he  was  still  a  baby  I  was  struck  with  the 
child's  likeness  to  his  father.  Even  Experience 
commented  on  it.  I  set  to  modelling  other 
heads.  Inspired  by  the  example  of  our  sculp- 
tor friend  I  essayed  studies  in  expression.  Boy, 
in  a  laughing  mood;  Boy,  crying;  sulking,  in  a 
temper;  Boy  asleep,  his  head  pillowed  on  Sny- 
der — Snyder,  now  so  altered  and  disfigured  by 
painless  surgery  at  the  hands  of  Experience 
as  to  be  hardly  recognizable.  From  the  face  and 
head  I  turned  to  a  study  of  the  hands.  It  had 
always  appeared  to  me  that  there  was  more  of 
the  real  character  written  in  the  human  hand 
than  in  any  other  feature  of  the  human  form. 
I  studied,  absorbingly,  the  expression  the  artist 
had  portrayed  in  the  hands  of  the  Inscrutable 
One  as  they  emerged  from  the  cloud-like  dra- 
pery in  the  final  grouping  on  the  Mount. 
Strength,  firmness,  a  certain  largeness  and  be- 
nignity and  withal  a  caressing  tenderness.  .  .  » 


262          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

It  pleased  and  surprised  me  to  observe,  how, 
with  each  new  effort,  the  clay  responded  more 
readily  to  my  touch.  Sometimes  I  made  ex- 
periments with  modelling  wax;  a  pinch  here,  a 
pressure  there  and  the  whole  expression 
changed. 

When  my  touch  had  mastered  a  certain  sure- 
ness  and  deftness  I  planned  a  nude  of  Boy  with 
the  idea  of  later  executing  it  in  marble.  I 
worked  unceasingly;  a  relentless  energy  urged 
me  on — to  what  purpose  it  never  suggested 
itself  to  enquire.  In  my  ardour  I  hardly  paused 
to  eat.  But,  conception  is  one  thing;  execution 
another.  I  began  to  understand  the  "dogged 
grind"  the  sculptor  had  spoken  of.  A  kind  of 
despair  flagged  my  spirit.  At  such  times  I 
dragged  myself  out  of  doors.  Sometimes  Boy 
would  accompany  me  on  these  walks,  but  for 
the  greater  part  I  went  alone.  I  liked  the  over- 
cast, drizzly  days  best.  There  was  a  quiet,  a 
solace,  in  the  unfrequented  paths  and  woodsy 
corners  of  the  upper  boundaries  of  the  Park. 
I  spent  hours  sitting  upon  the  rocks  feeding  the 
friendly  squirrels,  or  tramping  in  the  leaf- 
mouldy  tangle.  And  by  degrees  my  spirit  yield- 
ed to  the  balm  of  solitude.  Once  again  life 
fell  into  a  groove.  I  told  myself  I  had  reached 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          263 

a  readjustment  of  my  life.  For  Boy's  sake,  if 
for  no  other,  my  husband  and  I  should  go  on 
together.  The  fact  that  I  still  loved  my  hus- 
band I  placed  as  a  parenthetic  consideration,  in 
my  plans.  Boy  was  the  capstone  of  our  mar- 
ried life.  Having  brought  him  into  the  world 
without  the  desire  or  power  of  selection  on  his 
part,  obviously  our  first  duty  was  to  the  child. 
"Honour  thy  father  and  thy  mother"  had  al- 
ways appeared  to  me  in  dire  need  of  amend- 
ment. Why  honour  parents  who  are  not  quali- 
fied to  command  either  respect  or  affection? 
"Be  fruitful  and  multiply" :  whether  saint  or 
sinner,  breed!  breed!  breed!  Paugh!  When 
will  a  Wise  Prophet  arise  to  reveal  a  doctrine 
of  eugenics? — to  preach  that  quality,  not  quan- 
tity, makes  for  the  betterment  of  a  race — that 
to  be  well  born  is  the  rightful  heritage  of  the 
unborn.  .  .  . 

With  the  resolution  to  write  my  husband 
out  of  the  fullness  of  my  convictions  I  hurried 
homeward.  The  wind  had  shifted,  and  sharp 
bits  of  sleet  cut  against  my  face.  Hearing  me 
come  in,  Experience  had  brought  me  a  cup  of 
tea.  I  smiled  at  the  ginger-bread  dogs — all 
replicas  of  Snyder — which  she  told  me  she 
had  made  with  the  hope  of  amusing  Boy.  He 


264         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

had  been  querulous  and  quite  unlike  his  happy 
self;  she  feared  he  was  not  well,  though  at  this 
moment  he  was  sleeping  quietly.  I  tip-toed 
into  his  room  and,  discerning  no  unnatural 
symptoms,  I  left  him  undisturbed. 

The  letter  written,  I  gave  myself  up  to  the 
quiet  hour:  it  was  dusk,  and  with  night  a  sooth- 
ing hush  seemed  to  pervade  the  activities  of 
man.  In  the  shadows  of  the  room  the  white- 
ness of  the  plaster  casts  gleamed  like  tomb- 
stones, the  lonely  sentinels  of  the  dead.  I  re- 
call I  shuddered  at  the  thought  and  forthwith 
switched  on  the  light.  Once  in  every  little 
while  I  looked  in  upon  my  Boy.  When  at  last 
he  opened  his  eyes  and  smiled  at  me,  I  hugged 
him  to  my  breast  with  such  vehemence  as  to 
make  him  cry  out.  His  bedtime  bath  had  al- 
ways been  the  signal  for  a  romp.  Tonight, 
however,  he  seemed  disinclined  to  play.  A  hot 
dryness  of  his  skin  caused  me  to  take  his  tem- 
perature. I  found  nothing  disquieting  in  the 
slight  rise,  and  in  response  to  his  mood  I  lay 
down  beside  him  to  wait  for  the  sand-man.  All 
night  he  tossed.  In  the  morning  the  tempera- 
ture had  risen  to  an  alarming  degree.  I  sent 
for  the  doctor.  He  came  twice  during  the  day. 
In  the  night  Boy  was  seized  with  a  convulsion. 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          265 

When  the  doctor  arrived  in  answer  to  a  sum- 
mons by  telephone,  he  looked  grave.  Some- 
thing clutched  about  my  heart.  It  was  with  al- 
most superhuman  effort  I  framed  the  words. 
.  .  .  "Shall  I  .  .  .  send  for  his  father?  .  .  ." 
The  doctor  nodded.  "How  long  with  it  take 
him  to  get  here?"  he  said.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XVI 

IN  a  driving  rain,  under  a  weeping  sky,  we  fol- 
lowed the  little  white  casket  to  the  grave — the 
three  of  us.  There,  in  the  presence  of  only  the 
mole-faced  grave-diggers  and  the  man  of  pro- 
fessional black,  we  yielded  him  up.  Experience 
had  asked,  with  a  kind  of  awe,  whether  she 
should  call  in  a  minister.  I  could  have  shrieked 
at  the  mere  suggestion !  A  minister?  On  what 
pretence?  To  mumble  platitudinous  euphe- 
misms, worn  thread-bare  from  usage — to  essay 
to  comfort  me  with  specious  consolation  ground 
out  like  a  gramophone:  "Be  brave,  my  child! 
He  has  gone  to  a  better  world,"  or  "The  Lord 
giveth  and  the  Lord  taketh  away,"  or,  again, 
"You  are  not  alone  in  your  affliction;  other 
mothers  have  suffered  their  dear  ones  to  be  re- 
moved," et  cetera,  et  cetera.  Words !  Words ! 
Words!  .  .  . 

As  they  lowered  him  in  the  grave,  his  father 
held  me  close  and,  in  a  voice  tremulous  with 
tears,  he  quoted  reverently:     "And  from  his 
266 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          267 

fair  and  unpolluted  flesh  may  violets  spring." 
.  .  .  And  when  the  earth  thud  harshly  'gainst 
the  coffin  lid,  closing  him  away  forever  .  .  . 
never  again  to  hold  him  in  my  arms — never 
again  to  feel  his  cheek  on  mine.  .  .  .  O, 
Death!  your  sting  lies  buried  in  the  hearts  of 
those  who  stay  behind  .  .  .  and  then  to  leave 
him  there  .  .  .  alone  ...  in  the  heavy  silence 
of  the  dead  ...  so  cold  ...  all  unresisting, 
his  roguish  laughter  hushed  .  .  .  his  lips,  once 
red,  now  blue  and  drawn  .  .  .  the  wax-like 
lids  shadowed  with  heavy  fringe  .  .  .  my  Boy 
.  .  .  my  Boy  .  .  .  whose  coming  we  had  de- 
plored, whose  little  life  had  so  entwined  itself 
about  my  heart  as  made  a  part  of  me — the 
better  part.  .  .  .  Well  ...  he  had  not  tar- 
ried long.  .  .  .  Boy  .  .  .  Boy.  .  .  . 

In  the  overwhelming  grief  which  had  come 
to  me,  life  appeared  a  void;  a  vacuous,  heavy- 
footed  thing,  with  moments  of  suspended 
thought,  a  merciful  numbness  of  despair,  a 
sound,  a  familiar  sight,  a  rush  of  memory,  a 
freshet  of  tears,  each  overlapped  the  other, 
so  fast  they  followed.  One  of  the  unpardon- 
able and  most  resented  slights  to  those  in  af- 
fliction is  the  even  tenor  with  which  the  world 
wags  on  its  way,  callous  and  indifferent.  One 


268          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

would  have  it  stop,  take  heed,  upheave.  .  .  . 
So,  when  Will  announced  that  it  were  expedi- 
ent to  rejoin  his  company  almost  immediately 
I  felt  a  sacrilege  was  about  to  be  committed. 
His  role  was  being  played  by  an  understudy, 
who,  after  the  manner  of  understudies,  was 
neither  prepared  nor  equal  to  the  emergency 
which  had  suddenly  confronted  him.  Will 
urged  me  to  accompany  him,  pointing  out  that 
to  remain  in  the  apartment  alone  with  ever- 
present  reminders  of  my  loss  were  to  nurse  my 
grief  and  keep  the  wound  always  fresh 

"Unnumbered  cords,  frail  strands  full  fraught  with 

pain, 
That  join  the  soul  to  things  of  time  and  sense." 

The  thought  of  leaving  all  that  held  the 
nearness  of  his  spirit  was  repugnant  to  me.  I 
wanted  to  be  alone  with  my  grief.  Gradually 
I  came  to  realize  that  it  was  for  the  best.  Ex- 
perience, too — simple,  honest  soul — was  shaken 
by  the  suddenness  and  swiftness  of  our  loss.  I 
decided  to  send  her  to  her  home  for  a  rest  and 
change  of  scene.  After  all,  what  did  it  matter 
where  I  went?  .  .  .  Boy  was  not  there.  .  .  . 

The  season  dragged  by,  drab  and  comfort- 
less. WilFs  devotion  to  me  was  the  only  ray 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          269 

of  light  in  the  murkiness  of  my  spirit.  Our 
common  grief  had  bridged  the  gulf  between  us. 
All  the  gentleness,  the  tenderness  in  his  nature 
seemed  to  revive.  He  never  left  me  to  accept 
invitations  in  which  he  knew  I  could  not  share; 
something  like  the  old  camaraderie  was  re- 
stored between  us.  I  found  a  kind  of  balm  in 
the  thought  that,  if  the  death  of  my  son  had 
been  the  means  of  bringing  my  husband  and  me 
closer  together,  the  sacrifice  had  not  been  in 
vain — and  yet — and  yet  ...  in  the  inner  con- 
sciousness of  my  heart  I  knew  the  truth:  had 
I  been  called  upon  to  choose,  the  sacrifice  had 
not  been  Boy.  Truly,  life  is  a  continuous  com- 
promise. 

The  season  ended,  we  returned  to  New 
York.  Because  we  could  not  afford  to  move — 
there  being  the  usual  deficit  in  the  family  bud- 
get— we  opened  the  apartment.  To  dwell  upon 
the  resurging  pain  which  the  reminders  in  my 
home  undammed  were  to  make  fetish  of  my 
grief.  Neither  did  I  ask  Experience  to  return. 
She,  too,  belonged  to  the  past  of  things. 

Will  had  determined  to  leave  his  present 
management  and  seek  new  fields.  The  com- 
pany for  the  next  season  was  to  be  curtailed 
and  the  cast  cheapened,  an  extended  tour  of 


270          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

one-night  stands.  The  summer  was  passed  in 
New  York,  and  luckily,  except  for  periodic 
waves  of  tropical  heat,  the  weather  was  not  un- 
endurable. Will  spent  a  goodly  part  of  his 
time  at  the  Lambs'  Club,  where  he  said  he  kept 
in  touch  with  the  activities  of  the  managerial 
world.  The  season  promised  to  be  backward. 
Plans  appeared  to  be  slow  of  consummation. 
The  tedium  began  to  tell  on  Will's  nerves  and 
his  temper,  especially  when  he  found  himself 
suspended  from  the  Lambs  for  non-payment  of 
dues.  None  of  his  colleagues  came  to  his  res- 
cue. That  the  theatrical  profession  is  a  frater- 
nal organization  is  another  of  those  popular 
fallacies.  There  can  be  no  spirit  of  fraternity 
in  an  overcrowded  profession. 

It  became  expedient  that  Will  appeal  to  his 
father  for  financial  assistance,  a  resort  which 
he  postponed  as  long  as  possible,  since  the 
old  gentleman  invariably  accompanied  his 
grudging  remittances  with  advice,  censure  and 
no  little  contumely.  Will  could  not  understand 
why  he  was  not  "snapped  up"  at  once,  so  he 
expressed  it.  He  had  made  good  in  his  last 
engagement,  had  kept  himself  well  advertised 
(vide  the  press-agent)  and  it  would  appear 
that,  as  a  natural  sequence,  his  services  should 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          271 

be  in  demand.  He  commented  on  the  statement 
made  by  several  managers,  viz. :  they  had  noth- 
ing in  his  line.  It  was  evident  that  in  making 
a  pronounced  success  in  a  certain  genre  of  plays 
he  had  become  identified  with  the  one  type  of 
hero  and  the  managers  could  "see"  him  in  no 
other.  Managers  are,  with  rare  exceptions,  an 
unimaginative  lot.  In  no  other  way  can  one 
explain  the  deluge  of  plays  patterned  on  the 
same  type:  for  example,  let  a  manager  by  hit 
or  miss  produce  successfully  a  play  built  around 
the  Far  West,  immediately  there  spring  up  a 
dozen  of  the  ilk.  Or,  again,  let  a  play  of  farci- 
cal construction  score  a  hit;  the  public  is  im- 
mediately surfeited  with  a  run  of  farces.  So 
with  the  actor.  Let  him  once  become  identi- 
fied with  heroes  of  romantic  drama  and  the 
manager  fears  to  entrust  him  with  the  dress- 
suit  role,  and  vice  versa. 

More  and  more  I  was  impressed  with  the 
ephemeral  quality  of  the  actor's  success.  At 
best  the  actor's  is  an  aleatory  profession  and, 
as  in  all  games  of  chance,  the  losses  score 
highest. 

It  was  well  along  in  the  autumn  when  Will 
signed  and  immediately  began  rehearsals.  The 
star  was  a  petulant  little  lady  who,  by  grace  of 


272          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

her  marriage  with  a  manager,  had  been  hoisted 
to  her  present  position,  a  position  to  which 
she  was  not  equal  either  by  training,  person- 
ality or  talent.  For  several  seasons  the  hus- 
band-manager had  invested — and  lost — large 
sums  of  money  in  the  attempt  to  build  up  a 
following  for  his  wife.  The  present  venture 
was  a  kind  of  last  straw.  That  there  was  more 
or  less  "feeling"  between  the  couple  was 
evinced  by  their  frequent  passages  dy armes  of  a 
personal  nature,  at  rehearsals.  Accustomed 
as  he  was  to  the  thoroughness  of  the  stage- 
management  under  which  he  had  worked  dur- 
ing the  past  two  seasons,  Will  found  the  hit 
and  miss  methods  of  his  new  affiliation  discon- 
certing and  irritating.  In  addition  to  this,  the 
husband-manager-director  had  a  picturesque  if 
not  a  literate  command  of  the  language.  He 
was  in  the  habit  of  standing  in  the  centre  aisle 
or  at  the  back  of  the  theatre  and  shouting  his 
directions  to  the  members  on  the  stage.  When, 
as  sometimes  happened,  a  member  resented 
the  manager's  method  of  criticism  in  no  uncer- 
tain terms,  that  personage  would  back  down 
and  with  tearful,  if  blasphemous,  appeal  ex- 
plain himself.  On  opening  nights,  in  response 
to  the  persistent  calls  from  the  claque,  the  man- 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          273 

ager  reluctantly  ( !)  appeared  before  the  cur- 
tain to  bow  his  acknowledgment — in  shirt 
sleeves — his  air  of  exhaustion  contrasting 
sharply  with  his  jaws  which  worked  a  piece  of 
chewing-gum  like  a  ticket-chopper  in  rush  hours. 
It  would  seem  that  the  vanity  of  actors  is  not 
an  exclusive  attribute. 

The  metropolitan  reception  of  the  play  and 
star  was  not  one  of  unmitigated  joy.  The  hus- 
band-manager, not  liking  the  opinions  of  the 
press,  talked  back  both  in  print  and  from  the 
stage.  Two  ghastly  weeks  in  New  York,  play- 
ing to  a  papered  house  or  empty  seats,  and  the 
company  took  to  the  coal  regions.  Another 
fortnight  was  spent  sparring  for  open  time,  re- 
luctantly doled  out  to  the  weak,  and  the  com- 
pany gave  up  the  ghost.  Obviously  Will  had 
entered  upon  a  cycle  of  bad  luck.  I  took  upon 
myself  to  look  for  an  engagement.  Not  only 
on  account  of  the  material  consideration,  but 
because  the  emptiness  and  loneliness  of  my  life 
had  become  no  longer  endurable.  Self-imposed 
tasks  palled.  My  mind  refused  to  concentrate 
upon  the  line  of  study  I  had  outlined.  "And 
thus  the  native  hue  of  resolution  is  sickled  o'er 
with  the  pale  cast  of  thought."  The  career  I 
once  planned  for  myself  had  been  consigned  to 


274          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

the  dump  heap  of  lost  illusions.  I  could  not 
touch  the  clay  which  once  had  thrilled  me  with 
ambition. 

Will  went  about  with  me  on  my  visits  to 
various  managers.  He  encouraged  me  in  my 
intention  and  I  was  glad  to  interest  him,  to 
take  him  out  of  himself,  as  it  were.  His  run 
of  hard  luck  had  preyed  on  his  nerves  and 
frayed  his  temper.  There  was  reason  for  me 
to  suspect  he  was  drinking  more  than  was  good 
for  him.  Finally  there  came  an  offer  of  a  small 
part  in  a  musical  comedy  which  had  settled 
down  for  a  run  in  New  York.  The  fact  that 
I  was  possessed  of  no  great  amount  of  vocal 
equipment  did  not  preclude  me  from  the  field. 
The  manager  intimated  that  what  I  lacked  in 
voice  I  made  up  in  pulchritude,  though  I  recall 
he  referred  to  it  as  "shape."  The  salary  was 
to  be  thirty-five  dollars  a  week.  The  gowns 
were  furnished — those  worn  by  my  predeces- 
sor— though  I  was  called  upon  to  supply  my 
own  shoes,  silk  hose  and  gloves.  In  reality  I 
was  to  be  nothing  more  than  a  show-girl,  with 
a  few  lines  to  speak. 

Will  was  in  front  the  night  I  made  my 
debut.  After  the  performance  we  went  to  a 
restaurant,  there  to  talk  it  over.  Congratulat- 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          275 

ing  me  on  my  "getting  away  with  it"  and  tell- 
ing me  how  "peachy"  I  looked,  he  laughingly 
predicted  a  line  of  Johnnies  at  the  stage  door, 
flowers,  and  the  usual  perquisites  of  the  chor- 
us girl.  .  .  .  "If  you  weren't  wise  to  the  game, 
I'd  give  you  a  few  pointers,"  he  said,  .  .  "but" 
.  .  and  here  he  reached  across  the  table  and 
patted  me  on  the  hands  .  .  "I  reckon  you're 
equal  to  any  situation,  old  pard.  .  .  .  Just  sit 
tight  until  I  again  land  on  my  feet  and  then 
you  can  cut  it  out,  if  you  like." 

I  did  not  find  myself  subjected  to  any  fierce 
onslaughts  on  the  part  of  the  Johnnies  or 
viveurs  about  town.  Once  or  twice  I  received 
a  note  accompanied  with  flowers.  The  former 
I  destroyed;  the  latter  I  promptly  presented 
to  the  least  pretty  of  my  five  dressing-room 
mates.  She  wore  them  on  the  stage  and  made 
eyes  at  the  donor,  who  occupied  an  upper  box, 
much  to  my  amusement  and  to  his  confusion. 
I  discouraged  intimacies  of  all  kinds,  with  one 
exception.  But  of  this  more  hereafter.  The 
stage  director  never  attempted  to  chuck  me 
under  the  chin  or  call  me  "baby,"  as  he  did 
other  members  of  the  cast.  I  had  had  my  little 
run-in  with  him  at  rehearsal  when  he  essayed 
to  yell  at  me  after  the  manner  of  his  kind.  I 


276         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

stopped  short,  the  orchestra  petered  out  in  dis- 
cord and,  walking  to  the  apron  of  the  stage,  I 
modulated  my  voice,  so  that  it  reached  him 
quietly  but  effectively,  where  he  stood  in  the 

back  of  the  theatre.  uMr.  M ,"  I  had 

said,  "if  you  have  any  further  suggestion  to 
offer,  you  will  please  do  so  in  a  less  offensive 
manner.  My  hearing  is  good  and  I  believe  I 
have  the  average  amount  of  intelligence." 
There  was  an  ominous  silence  and  the  martinet 
started  down  the  aisle.  Behind  me  I  heard  a 
buzz  of  approbation  from  the  girls  who  had 
suffered  at  his  hands.  Just  why  the  bully 
changed  his  mind  I  never  knew.  At  any  rate 
the  rehearsal  was  continued.  Later  the  mana- 
ger chaffed  me  about  the  incident.  The 
manager  was  an  undeveloped  little  person — as 
if  some  hereditary  blight  had  nipped  him  in 
the  bud — distinctly  Semitic  in  all  his  traits. 
Will  had  known  him  from  the  time  he  had 
abandoned  haberdashery  for  theatrical  man- 
agement; indeed,  I  believe  he  had  been  a  mem- 
ber of  the  manager's  first  venture  into  the  field. 
One  feature  which  stands  out  most  promi- 
nently in  retrospect  was  my  adaptability  to  my 
surroundings.  Conditions  which  once  had 
shocked  me  no  longer  left  an  impression.  Ob- 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          277 

viously  the  finer  edge  of  my  nature  had  worn 
blunt.  Things  appeared  to  me  in  a  kind  of  im- 
personal light.  My  present  path  had  been 
chosen  from  necessity;  a  part  of  the  scheme 
of  things,  yet  a  thing  apart.  The  common- 
place round  of  concerns  and  duties  went  on, 
but  life,  real  life,  for  the  time  being  lay  fallow. 
Occasionally,  when  I  caught  myself  dropping 
into  the  slang  and  jargon  I  had  absorbed  from 
my  fellow  workers,  I  mused  a  bit  and  pulled 
myself  up  with  a  sharp  curb.  But,  as  I  have 
said,  I  was  no  longer  disturbed  or  impressed 
with  conditions  which  once  had  sent  the  blood 
to  my  cheeks. 

The  easy  familiarity  between  the  sexes 
which  I  had  thought  sufficiently  deplorable  in 
the  "legitimate"  branch  of  the  theatrical  pro- 
fession was  in  the  comic  opera  world  flagrant- 
ly increased.  I  have  heard  a  distinction  made 
between  immorality  and  unmorality,  but  I  fail 
to  observe  any  slight  deviation  from  the  gen- 
eral result.  Vulgar  stories,  steeped  in  smut, 
went  the  rounds.  Each  new  one  was  welcomed 
and  passed  down  the  line.  If  one  betrayed  her 
disapproval  by  ignoring  the  raconteur,  she  was 
laughed  down  and  thereafter  referred  to  as 
"very  up-stage."  In  the  dressing-rooms  mod- 


278          MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

esty  of  person  was  an  unknown  quantity.  Not 
infrequently  I  found  "extra"  gentlemen  per- 
forming lady's  maid  service  for  one  of  the 
girls.  On  one  occasion  when  I  slipped  on  the 
iron  stairway  leading  to  the  stage,  badly 
wrenching  my  ankle,  a  sturdy  stage-hand 
picked  me  up,  carried  me  to  my  dressing-room, 
and,  before  I  realized  what  he  was  about,  had 
pulled  off  my  shoe  and  was  in  way  of  remov- 
ing my  stocking  when  I  protested.  "O,  well, 
if  you're  that  fussy — "  he  said  as  he  went 
out.  .  .  . 

One  of  the  most  pernicious  influences  to  be 
contended  against  by  the  girl  who  tries  to  go 
straight  is  the  never-ceasing  topic  of  "men" 
and  "money."  The  man  behind  the  bankroll 
is  the  basis,  in  one  form  or  another,  of  all  the 
chorus-girl  conversations.  To  be  picked  out  by 
a  man  of  means  to  marry,  or,  failing  this,  to 
be  set  up  in  a  "swell"  apartment  and  "put  it 
all  over"  the  girls  of  her  acquaintance,  is  the 
hope  which  springs  eternal  in  the  chorus-girl 
breast.  Even  in  hard  times,  when  the  cham- 
pagne appetite  needs  must  be  quenched  with 
beer,  she  dreams  of  diamonds.  Standing  in 
the  wings,  waiting  for  the  cue,  one  hears  an 
exchange  of  banter  such  as  this:  "Heard  you 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          279 

was  at  the  Abbaye  last  night.  .  .  .  Where'd 
you  pick  him  up?  ...  Say,  don't  you  believe 
anything  he  tells  you !  Henny  knows  all  about 
him  and  he  says  that  for  a  tight-wad  he's  got 
Russell  Sage  skinned  to  death!"  Or  .  .  "I 
was  at  Morrisheimer's  today;  they're  havin' 
a  sale  of  models.  I  gotta  three-piece  velvet 
suit  for  thirty-five  dollars,  marked  down  from 
seventy."  .  .  .  "Say!  He  must  be  good  to 
you.  Why  don't  you  introduce  me  to  some  of 
your  gentlemen  friends?" 

I  once  asked  a  chorus  girl  of  considerable 
notoriety  how  she  had  come  to  enter  the  pro- 
fession. "O,"  she  replied,  "my  folks  was  the 
poor  but  respectable  kind.  There  was  a  big 
family  of  us,  and  I,  bein'  the  oldest,  had  to  help 
out.  I  didn't  get  much  schoolin'  and,  after  try- 
in'  half  a  dozen  things  like  bein'  a  chamber 
maid,  waitin'  in  a  restaurant  and  that  kind  of 
business,  I  tumbled  to  the  fact  that  I  wusn't 
bad  lookin'.  That's  all  I  had;  my  face  and 
my  shape,  and  the  stage  was  the  best  place 
to  show  'em." 

My  dressing-room  mates  were  typical 
show-girls;  maniere,  self-conscious  and  always 
on  parade.  It  was  painfully  evident  they  felt 
themselves  above  the  chorus,  though  some  of 


280          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

them  were  pleased  to  forget  the  fact  that  they 
were  but  recently  graduated  from  that  class. 

One  of  these  girls  afterward  married  an 
English  baronet.  I  have  since  wondered  what 
disposition  was  made  of  the  baronet's  mother- 
in-law.  I  made  her  acquaintance  in  the  dress- 
ing-room one  evening,  whither  she  had  come 
to  mend  her  daughter's  wardrobe.  She  was  a 
splendid  specimen  of  the  complaisant  stage- 
mamma.  Clad  in  rusty  black,  her  portly  figure 
bulging  from  ill-fitting  stays,  one  might  mistake 
her  for  the  type  of  scrub-woman  one  sees  about 
the  large  office  buildings  of  early  mornings, 
but  never,  never  would  one  suspect  her  of  being 
the  mother  of  this  near-Vere-de-Vere.  Voluble 
to  a  point  of  madness,  she  would  acquaint  you 
with  the  family  history,  the  cause  and  intimate 
details  of  her  husband's  untimely  taking  off 
and  the  great  hopes  she  entertained  for  her 
daughter's  "getting  on."  Sometimes  she 
brought  with  her  the  youngest  of  her  offspring, 
a  little  girl  of  six  who  had  already  made  her 
debut  as  a  child-actress.  Like  all  children  of 
the  stage,  she  was  precocious  and  most  unchild- 
like.  In  the  enactment  of  laws  which  are  aimed 
to  protect  the  child-labourer,  an  attempt  is  be- 
ing made  to  bring  about  an  exemption  of  their 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          281 

application  to  the  stage-child.  That  the  child- 
actor  receives  better  pay,  that  he  or  she  works 
less  hours  and  under  more  sanitary  surround- 
ings than  do  children  in  other  trades  and  pro- 
fessions, cannot  be  gainsaid.  But  is  the  eco- 
nomic welfare  of  the  child  the  prime  and  only 
consideration?  Is  the  physical  protection  the 
one  and  uppermost  consummation  to  be  de- 
sired? What  of  the  spiritual,  the  moral  side 
of  the  stage-child?  If  environment  bear  the 
strong  influence  on  human  life  we  are  led  to 
believe,  then  should  the  stage-child  be  removed 
from  its  infectious  surroundings.  The  old  saw 
to  the  effect  of  pitch  and  defilement  is  here 
most  applicable. 

I  have  referred  elsewhere  to  the  exception 
I  made  in  my  discouragement  of  intimacies.  On 
that  morning  at  rehearsal  when  I  had  resented 
the  stage-director's  mode  of  criticism,  among 
others  who  had  approved  my  act  was  a  girl 
whose  face  had  at  once  attracted  me.  She  was 
pretty  and  of  less  common  type  than  the  chorus 
averages.  There  was  something  individual 
about  her.  Her  appearance  was  neat  and  I 
had  observed  that  her  clothes  were  neither  so 
new  nor  so  extreme  as  were  those  of  her  col- 
leagues. Also  I  was  impressed  with  a  quiet 


282          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

refinement  of  manner  and  her  usage  of  good 
English.  As  we  became  better  acquainted  she 
sometimes  waited  for  me  after  the  performance 
and  we  walked  together  to  the  underground  sta- 
tion, where  our  lines  diverged.  Later  I  had 
asked  her  to  dine  with  me  on  a  Sunday  when 
Will  was  away  on  a  week-end  motor  trip.  She 
appeared  to  enjoy  the  home  atmosphere  and 
visited  with  me  in  the  kitchen  while  I  was  pre- 
paring dinner.  Feeling  that  with  our  reduced 
income  we  could  not  afford  it,  I  had  dispensed 
with  a  servant.  And  as  Will  rarely,  if  ever, 
dined  at  home,  my  housekeeping  duties  were 
not  onerous. 

"This  is  what  I  have  always  longed  for — a 
little  home  all  my  own,"  Leila  had  remarked, 
smiling  wistfully.  ...  It  was  after  dinner  and 
we  had  settled  ourselves  for  a  chat. 

"Then,  in  the  name  of  common  sense,  dear 
girl,  why  did  you  go  on  the  stage?  Home  life 
and  a  stage  career  are  as  antipodal  as  the 
poles." 

"And  yet  you  manage  to  blend  the  two  rath- 
er charmingly,"  she  retorted. 

"Absurd!  I'm  not  trying  for  a  career,  and 
as  for  home  life  .  .  my  dear  child,  it's  the 
merest  pretense.  Half  the  time  we  are  not  at 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          283 

home  and  the  flat  has  either  to  be  let  or  remain 
closed.  One  never  knows  from  day  to  day 
when  the  furniture  will  be  packed  off  to  stor- 
age." 

"Yes  .  .  I  presume  you  are  right.  .  .  . 
How  did  I  come  to  go  on  the  stage?  .  .  . 
Well,  I  suppose  it  was  because  I  wanted  a  ca- 
reer of  some  kind.  ...  I  wanted  to  do  some- 
thing; you  know  how  empty  and  shallow  the 
average  girl's  life  is,  with  the  endless  round  of 
parties,  visits,  fancy  work  and  that  sort  of 
thing.  I  was  an  only  daughter,  too.  Father 
was  well-to-do  and  wrapped  up  in  the  affairs 
of  the  small  city  in  which  we  lived.  After  he 
died,  mother  thought  she  would  like  to  travel. 
We  went  abroad.  It  was  over  there  that  the 
idea  of  a  career  took  a  stronger  hold  on  me. 
About  the  only  talent  I  could  lay  any  claim  to 
was  music.  I  had  always  played  and  sung  at 
our  home  concerts  and  church  sociables.  .  .  . 
But  mother  didn't  encourage  me  in  my  ambi- 
tions. She  argued  that,  since  father  had  left 
us  comfortably  fixed,  why  should  I  want  to 
worry  my  head  about  work?  Besides,  she  said 
my  first  duty  was  to  her  as  long  as  she  lived. 
So  there  it  rested.  .  .  .  We  just  drifted  from 
place  to  place  .  .  vegetating  .  .  " 


284          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

"Some  parents  are  like  that,"  I  commented. 

Leila  rested  her  chin  in  her  palms  and  went 
on  .  .  "After  mother  died  I  resolved  to  go 
after  that  career.  I  returned  abroad  to  study 
.  .  "  She  chuckled  a  little,  probably,  at  the 
remembrance.  .  .  .  "Of  course,  the  teachers 
said  I  had  a  great  future  ahead  of  me  .  .  with 
application  and  patience  .  .  infinite  patience. 
Meanwhile  I  must  study — and  pay  exorbitant 
prices  for  my  tuition.  The  income  which  had 
been  ample  for  my  needs  heretofore  did  not 
go  very  far  under  the  new  regime.  I  found  it 
necessary  to  cut  into  the  capital,  realizing  the 
danger  of  such  a  move,  but  soothing  my  fears 
with  the  dream  of  my  great  future.  .  .  .  Well, 
honey,  the  splendid  career  as  you  see  has  ended 
in  the  chorus.  .  .  .  And,  what's  more,  I'm  liv- 
ing on  my  salary."  She  picked  up  Will's  guitar 
and  began  strumming  on  it.  "What  I  can't  un- 
derstand," she  continued  after  a  while,  "what 
I  feel  most  is  the  fact  that  I  don't  seem  able 
to  pull  myself  out  of  it.  I  see  other  girls  lift- 
ing themselves  to  better  positions;  I  know  I 
can  sing  better  than  any  one  of  them.  .  .  . 
There  was  Miss  Nelson  whom  you  succeeded. 
As  soon  as  I  heard  she  was  to  retire  I  went  to 
the  manager  and  asked  for  her  place.  He 


MY;   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

sent  me  to  the  musical  director,  who  heard  me 
sing,  commented  favorably  and  said  he  would 
report  to  the  manager.  That  was  the  last  I 
heard  of  it  until  rehearsal  was  called  and  I 
learned  that  you  had  been  engaged.  .  .  .  Tell 
me,  honestly,  what's  the  matter  with  me?  Why 
don't  I  get  on?  Is  it  because  I  haven't  any 
pull  or  because — "  She  did  not  finish  her  sen- 
tence, but  switched  to  another.  .  .  .  "Take  our 
prima  donna  for  example:  three  years  ago  she 
was  playing  a  part  not  bigger  than  yours.  Now 
look  at  her!  My  voice  is  as  good  as  hers,  if 
not  better,  but  I  can't  get  them  to  let  me  even 
understudy  her."  .  .  . 

A  vision  of  the  prima  donna  passed  before 
my  eye ;  an  insipidly  pretty  woman  whose  sud- 
den rise  to  fame  had  turned  her  empty  little 
head.  Vain,  impetuous,  over-keyed,  already 
the  marks  of  dissipation  were  leaving  their  in- 
delible stamp.  Whenever  I  saw  her,  resplend- 
ent in  sables,  dangling  her  jewelled  gold-mesh 
purse,  my  mind  reverted  to  a  well-known  club- 
man's comment  on  virtue:  "I  always  measure 
the  chastity  of  the  unprotected  female  by  the 
size  of  her  gold-mesh  bag;  the  larger  the  bag 
the  less  the  virtue." 

Leila,  bent  on  relieving  her  mind  and  heart, 


286          MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

went  on :  "When  I  went  into  the  chorus  it  was 
a  choice  between  that  and  Macy's.  Of  course 
I'd  heard  things  about  the  life,  but  I  told  my- 
self that  a  girl  who  wants  to  can  go  straight 
in  any  walk  of  life.  I  had  all  those  copy-book 
maxims  at  the  tip  of  my  tongue :  'Virtue  is  its 
own  reward,'  and  'Then  let  us  be  up  and  do- 
ing, with  a  heart  for  any  fate;  still  achieving, 
still  pursuing,  learn  to  labour  and  to  wait,'  or 
something  like  that.  .  .  .  Willie  Stewart — you 
know  the  little  black-eyed  girl  who  plays  next 
to  me  on  the  left — it  was  she  who  gave  me  my 
first  eye-opener.  Seeing  that  I  was  new  at  the 
business,  she  came  to  me  shortly  after  we 
opened  and  asked  me  if  I  didn't  want  to  meet 
some  gentlemen;  that  she  had  been  asked  to 
bring  some  of  the  girls  with  her  to  a  beefsteak 
party  which  was  to  be  pulled  off  that  night. 
I  thanked  her  and  told  her  I  did  not  care  to 
go.  Willie  squinted  her  eyes  a  little  in  sizing 
me  up,  then  treated  me  to  the  following  advice : 
'Look  here,  angel  child,  you'd  better  go  back 
to  home  and  mother.  This  is  no  place  for  a 
minister's  daughter.  If  you  haven't  got  sense 
enough  to  take  a  chance  when  it's  brought  to 
you  on  a  silver  tray — well,  all  I've  got  to  say 
is  that  you're  in  wrong.  Managers  want  the 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          287 

girls  that  are  popular  and  the  way  to  be  popu- 
lar is  to  mingle.  Just  remember  that  you  don't 
get  anything  for  nothing  in  this  business  or  in 
no  other,  as  far  as  I've  been  able  to  observe. 
It's  give  up — give  up  all  along  the  line  and 
it's  only  the  foxy  dame  that  gets  what's  comin' 
to  her,  even  then!'  " 

"Willie  has  a  very  large  gold  bag,  I  have 
noticed,"  I  said. 

"And  a  sealskin  coat,"  Leila  added.  Then 
she  jumped  to  her  feet  and  struck  at  the  sofa 
pillows  viciously.  .  .  .  "It  isn't  the  clothes  and 
that  sort  of  thing  that  appeal  to  me.  It  isn't 
the  fact  that  I'm  living  in  a  dingy  little  room 
and  trying  to  make  ends  meet;  I'd  live  on  a 
box  of  Uneeda  Biscuits  a  day  if  I  saw  any 
hope,  the  faintest  ray  of  hope  that  I  could  win 
out  clean,  on  merit  alone,  in  the  end.  .  .  . 
Sometimes  I  think  I'm  wrong  and  that  they  are 
right—" 

"Leila!  You  don't  think  anything  of  the 
sort!  You  know  you  are  right!  Hold  on  a 
little  while  longer;  you're  sure  to  win!  Why, 
with  a  voice  like  yours,  and  your  beauty,  I 
should  feel  so  sure  of  winning  that  nothing 
else  would  matter — and  it  doesn't,  Leila,  noth- 
ing else  really  counts  if  you  live  up  to  the  best 


288          MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

that's  in  you!"  I  had  worked  myself  up  to  a 
state  of  enthusiasm  where  I  almost  believed  my 
own  words.  I  took  her  by  the  shoulders  and 
held  her  at  arm's  length.  We  looked  into  each 
other's  eyes,  each  trying  to  pierce  the  veil  be- 
hind which  are  concealed  our  true  thoughts. 

It  was  nearing  the  holidays  when  Will  signed 
for  the  engagement  which  was  destined  to  play 
such  an  important  role  in  our  future  lives.  The 
star  was  of  foreign  origin,  with  a  fascinating 
accent  and  a  steadily  increasing  reputation  for 
eroticism.  Under  the  guise  of  uhigh-brow" 
drama  she  revelled  in  the  portrayal  of  abnor- 
mal femininity.  Her  adeptness  in  "suggestive" 
scenes,  to  which  she  lent  a  startling  verisimili- 
tude, soon  gained  for  her  a  large,  if  not  alto- 
gether intellectual,  following.  Will  was  not 
altogether  satisfied  with  his  role,  but  what  ac- 
tor ever  is?  I  consoled  him  with  the  fact  that 
the  salary  was  good  and  that  but  little  of  the 
present  season  remained. 

With  Will  on  the  road,  left  to  myself  in 
the  empty  apartment,  the  blue  devils  renewed 
their  lease.  And  when  the  approach  of  the 
Christmas  season  began  to  manifest  itself  in 
shop-windows  and  in  holiday  rush,  my  heart- 
ache increased  manifold.  Leila  and  I  were 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          289 

much  together  in  those  days.  My  little  friend's 
increasing  depression,  instead  of  augmenting 
my  own,  acted  as  a  spur  to  brighter  moods. 
Together  we  made  the  round  of  the  shops  or 
tramped  through  the  snow  in  Central  Park. 
Sometimes  we  lingered  to  watch  the  young  peo- 
ple skating  on  the  ice;  again  we  hitched  our- 
selves to  sleds  to  the  merriment  of  small  folk. 
Coming  home  alone  from  a  matinee  I  would 
find  myself  following  a  party  of  children  out 
on  an  ante-holiday  survey.  Standing  close  to 
them  I  listened  to  their  prattle  and  eager  ex- 
pectancy of  a  visit  from  Santa  Claus.  ...  If 
the  tears  came  I  swallowed  hard.  No  one  was 
near  to  heed.  In  the  seclusion  of  my  home  I 
fought  it  out  alone. 

It  had  been  my  intention  to  carry  a  box  of 
flowers  to  the  dear  one's  grave  on  Christmas 
morning.  Passing  one  day  through  a  wretched 
quarter  of  the  East  Side  in  search  of  a  dilatory 
laundress,  my  steps  halted  in  front  of  a  cheap 
toy-shop.  Beside  me  stood  a  small  boy,  cling- 
ing to  the  hand  of  an  older  girl,  their  eyes 
riveted  upon  the  display  within.  With  one 
grimy  little  hand,  stiff  and  rough  from  the  cold, 
the  small  man  smeared  the  tears  from  his  eyes 
and  snivelled.  His  threadbare  coat,  sizes  too 


290          MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

large  for  his  meagre  frame,  his  toes  showing 
through  his  shoes.  The  girl's  face  was  peaked 
and  old,  as  if  the  despair  of  life  had  already 
left  its  stamp.  There  was  something  infinite- 
ly tender  in  the  way  she  held  the  boy  close  to 
her,  mutely  comforting  his  grief,  her  eyes 
meeting  half  defiantly  the  tinselled  magnet  of 
the  shop-window,  her  lips  compressed  to  stop 
their  mutinous  tremble.  When  at  last  I 
brought  myself  to  break  in  upon  their  thoughts, 
they  looked  at  me  like  startled  fawns.  .  .  . 

The  overture  was  on  when  I  rushed  into  the 
theatre  that  afternoon.  With  Leila's  help  I 
was  in  time  for  my  cue.  And  it  was  with  Lei- 
la's help  that  I  dressed  the  toys  and  trimmed 
the  tree  and  between  us,  late  on  Christmas  Eve, 
we  toted  a  big  basket  on  and  off  the  cars,  up 
the  dingy  stairs  where  Maggie  kept  house  for 
"me  brudder"  while  their  mother  went  out  to 
work.  ...  It  was  Boy's  offering,  not  mine. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

COMING  out  of  the  stage  door  after  the  per- 
formance one  night  shortly  after  the  New  Year, 
the  back-door  keeper  met  me  with  the  informa- 
tion that  a  gentleman  was  waiting  to  see  me. 
Before  I  could  frame  a  reply  a  bulky  figure 
emerged  from  the  gloom.  I  recognized  Mr. 
F.  of  Chicago.  There  was  something  akin  to 
embarrassment  in  the  way  he  proffered  his 
hand,  though  his  grip  was  not  lacking  in  geni- 
ality. Of  the  two  I  was  the  more  self-pos- 
sessed. To  my  polite  inquiries  about  his  fam- 
ily he  murmured  something  about  their  being 
all  right,  he  guessed,  and  abruptly  changed  the 
subject  by  asking  me  to  "come  jump  in  a  taxi 
and  let's  go  somewhere  for  a  bite  of  supper.*' 
I  did  not  understand  why  I  so  readily  acqui- 
esced. On  the  way  to  Rector's — he  himself 
having  made  the  choice  of  restaurant — we  ex- 
changed amenities.  I  believe  I  deplored  the 
fact  that  I  was  not  dressed  for  the  occasion, 
and  he  had  replied  with  a  flattering  speech  in- 
291 


292         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

tended  to  salve  my  vanity.  After  he  had  or- 
dered the  most  expensive  items  on  the  menu, 
he  settled  back  in  his  chair,  toyed  with  his  fork, 
looked  at  me  searchingly,  then  broke  out  laugh- 
ing. The  laughter  was  not  pleasant  to  the  ear; 
it  left  an  unpleasant  apprehension.  He  leaned 
across  the  table  with  a  confidential  air  and 
smiled  quizzically.  .  .  . 

"Do  you  remember  the  last  time  we  had 
supper  together?" 

I  nodded  and  coaxed  a  smile. 

"Perfectly,"  I  responded. 

A  silence,  while  Mr.  F.  traced  strange  hiero- 
glyphics on  the  napery.  After  a  while  he 
tossed  aside  the  fork  with  the  air  of  one  cast- 
ing off  unpleasant  memories,  and  settled  back 
In  his  chair. 

"Tell  me  about  yourself,"  he  commanded. 
"How  is  the  world  using  you?  What  in 
the  name  of  wonder  ever  took  you  on  the  comic 
opera  stage?  I  couldn't  believe  my  own  eyes 
when  I  spotted  you  tonight,  and,  of  course,  the 
name  on  the  programme  meant  nothing  to  me. 
I  shook  my  friends  as  soon  as  the  performance 
was  over  and  interviewed  the  back-door  keep- 
er. He  told  me  you  were  Mrs.  Hartley  in 
private  life.  .  .  .  Well,  what's  the  answer?" 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          295 

"There's  nothing  mysterious  about  my  pres- 
ent occupation.  Mr.  Hartley  hasn't  been  es- 
pecially lucky  this  season,  and  when  a  chance 
to  help  out  a  bit  presented  itself  I  took  it  .  . 
that's  all.  ...  I  presume  you  know  that  we 
lost  our  boy  .  .  ' 

"Yes — yes  .  .  I  knew,  of  course."  His  tone 
was  curt,  but  I  understood  his  reluctance  to 
dwell  upon  the  subject.  The  return  of  the 
waiter  ended  a  painful  silence.  After  that  Mr. 
F.  kept  up  a  running  fire  of  gossip  and  ques- 
tions about  stage  life.  But  beneath  the  surface 
I  sensed  and  lent  him  tacit  aid  in  his  effort  to 
steer  clear  of  the  topic  I  knew  to  be  uppermost 
in  his  mind.  From  time  to  time  rumours  of  a 
fresh  rupture  with  his  wife  had  reached  me. 
In  fact,  it  was  Will  who  had  acquainted  me 
with  the  news  of  their  final  estrangement.  He 
confided  the  details  of  the  lady's  latest  excur- 
sion into  the  realm  of  the  illicit,  with  the  sen- 
tentious air  of,  "There!  Didn't  I  predict  what 
would  happen?"  and  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 
I  am  not  sure  that  it  was  not  Will's  intent  to 
sympathize  with  himself  as  a  victim  of  circum- 
stances over  which  he  had  no  control.  Indeed, 
the  occasional  bursts  of  confidences  which  he 
thrust  upon  me,  and  in  which  he  discussed  quite 


294          MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

frankly  the  indiscretions  of  certain  lion-hunting 
ladies,  were  made,  I  felt,  with  the  hope  of  im- 
pressing upon  me  the  pitfalls  with  which  a  man 
in  his  profession  is  surrounded.  Or  was  it 
vanity,  or  a  desire  to  fan  the  old  flame  of  pas- 
sion he  once  had  aroused — a  passion,  which,  if 
the  paraphrase  is  pardonable,  was  now  utame 
and  waited  on  judgment?" 

In  some  way — I  am  not  certain  how  it  came 
about,  since  "made"  conversation  is  at  best 
disjointed  and  lacks  in  sequence — a  ran- 
dom remark  inspired  a  challenge  from  Mr.  F., 
who  offered  to  lay  a  bet  that  I  was  in  the 
wrong.  "O,  no,"  I  had  replied,  "I  don't  want 
you  to  lose ;  besides,  you  do  not  pay  your  gam- 
bling debts  promptly.  Do  you  know  you  never 
sent  me  that  box  of  candy  I  won  from  you  in 
Cincinnati?  Mr.  F.  .  .  you're  not  a  good 
sport !"  With  a  shock  I  realized  I  was  in  shal- 
low waters.  ...  He  looked  at  me  with  his 
eyes  narrowed  to  mere  slits.  .  .  .  "Well,  little 
woman,  I  can't  say  that  of  you,  can  I?  ... 
I  can't  say  that  you're  not  a  good  sport — after 
that  performance  in  Cincinnati."  .  .  . 

I  flushed  but  made  a  heroic  effort  to  control 
my  voice.  "I  don't  think  I  follow  you."  Mr. 
F.  beat  up  the  bubbles  in  his  glass  and  watched 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          295 

them    come    to    the    surface    before    he    an- 
swered. 

"Of  course  youVe  heard  about  her  latest  af- 
fair with  that  Italian  opera  singer.  .  .  .  Well, 
I  caught  her  with  the  goods  this  time.  .  .  . 
For  the  sake  of  the  children  I'm  letting  her 
get  the  divorce.  .  .  .  '  He  left  off  frowning 
and  contemplated  me  with  an  amused  smile. 
"Say,  little  woman,  you  did  put  it  all  over  me 
there  in  Cincinnati,  didn't  you?  .  .  .  I  suppose 
you're  wondering  how  I  got  wise  to  it?  Well, 
I  wrung  the  confession  out  of  her;  I  wouldn't 
let  her  get  the  divorce  until  she  told  me  the 
truth,  and  then  I  checked  it  up  through  her 
sister,  who's  a  pretty  good  sort.  .  .  .  All  my 
life  I've  had  a  deep-rooted  respect  for  a  game 
sport.  .  .  .  When  I  look  at  that  pretty  little 
face  of  yours  and  think  of  the  job  you  cooked 
up  at  a  moment's  notice — well,  I  take  off  my 
hat  to  you,  that's  all!  .  .  .  Look  here,  little 
woman:  if  anything  ever  goes  wrong  between 
you  and  handsome  Bill — and  by  Gad !  I  thought 
it  had  when  I  saw  you  on  the  stage  tonight — 
if  ever  you  need  a  friend,  just  tap  the  wires. 
There's  my  club  address  .  .  and,  little  lady — 
don't  be  afraid  that  I'll  ask  anything  in  return 
— do  you  follow  me  ?  I'm  not  any  better  than 


296          MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

the  rest  of  my  kind,  but  I  think  I  know  the 
real  thing  when  I  meet  it." 

While  donning  my  wraps  in  the  cloak-room 
some  time  later,  I  was  surprised  to  see  my  little 
friend  Leila  enter  and  present  her  coat-check 
to  the  maid.  She  flushed  a  little  in  surprise 
as  she  greeted  me:  "Why,  Mrs.  Hartley!  I 
didn't  know  you  were  here !  Where  were  you 
sitting?  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  you  were  com- 
ing?" 

"I  didn't  know  myself.  I  found  an  old  ac- 
quaintance waiting,  and  of  course  he  wanted 
to  see  'where  the  soubrettes  hang  out.1 ' 

"How  funny!  My  coming  was  unexpected, 
too.  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  tomorrow."  She 
hurried  away,  a  little  eagerly,  I  thought.  As 
I  passed  out  in  response  to  a  beckon  from  Mr. 
F.  I  saw  Leila  being  helped  into  a  handsome 
fur  coat. 

I  told  myself  it  was  none  of  my  business; 
that  Leila  knew  perfectly  well  what  she  was 
doing  and  that  any  amount  of  advice  from  me 
would  not  only  not  be  acted  upon,  but  would 
be  resented.  Already  she  avoided  me.  To  my 
pleadings  that  I  was  lonely — would  she  not 
dine  with  me  at  my  home? — she  responded 
with  ever-ready  but  piffling  excuses  and  subter- 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          297 

fugcs.  I  would  see  her  emerge  from  her  dress- 
ing-room after  the  performance,  prettily 
dressed,  get  into  a  waiting  taxicab  and  be 
whirled  away.  The  situation  preyed  on  my 
mind.  Once  I  took  courage  in  both  hands  and 
called  at  her  lodging-house  only  to  be  told 
that  Miss  Moore  had  moved  away  a  month 
since.  I  got  the  new  address  from  the  back- 
door keeper,  and  when  my  little  friend  was  out 
of  the  cast  through  illness  I  seized  the  oppor- 
tunity to  call  on  her. 

It  was  one  of  those  smaller  apartment  hotels 
in  the  West  Forties;  I  was  taken  up  in  the  ele- 
vator without  challenge.  The  coloured  maid 
who  cautiously  opened  the  door  said  she  did 
not  know  whether  her  mistress  would  see  me. 
Something  in  my  manner,  however,  caused  her 
to  stand  aside  and  let  me  enter.  The  rooms 
were  tastefully  if  cheaply  furnished.  Leila 
was  lying  on  a  couch,  propped  with  pillows  and 
clad  in  a  dainty  silk  kimono.  She  was  taken 
by  surprise  and  flushed  a  little  as  she  extended 
her  hand.  The  maid  placed  a  chair  for  me. 

"I — I  thought  you  had  forgotten  me,"  she 
stammered  as  I  offered  the  flowers  I  had 
brought.  "How  good  of  you!" 

"They're  only  seconds,  Leila,  but  the  best  I 


298          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

could  afford.'*  And,  compared  to  the  big 
American  Beauties  reposing  in  a  vase  near  at 
hand,  they  certainly  did  look  shop-worn. 

"It's  a  beastly  day,  isn't  it?  Let  me  send 
for  a  cup  of  tea  or  maybe  you'd  like  a  high- 
ball. .  .  ." 

I  declined  both.  The  maid  disappeared. 
Leila  squirmed  about  on  her  pillows.  .  .  . 

"I'm  sorry  to  see  you  ill,  Leila,"  I  ventured 
by  way  of  breaking  the  ice. 

"O,  I'm  not  really  ill  ...  only  a  slight 
cold.  I'm  a  bit  run  down  and  the  Judge — that 
is — the  doctor  thought  I  should  rest  for  a 
while.  I'm  not  going  back  to  the  theatre  this 
season.  .  .  .  It's  awfully  good  of  you  to 
bother  about  me.  .  .  ." 

"Leila?"  I  said  finally.  .  .  .  "Leila,  is  it 
worth  it?" 

"Is  what  worth "  .  .  . 

"All  this."  I  indicated  the  apartment,  the 
piano,  the  silk  negligee — and  the  ring  on  her 
finger.  .  .  .  "Is  it  worth  the  price  you  are  pay- 
ing?" I  asked  gently.  She  lifted  her  shoul- 
ders. 

"I  don't  know!"  Her  tone  was  half  ques- 
tion, half  defiance.  .  .  "I  do  know  that  the 
other  way  wasn't  worth  the  sacrifices,  the 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND         299 

scrimping  and  mean  pinching.  I  couldn't  go 
on  like  that — I  couldn't!  I  am  young;  I  want 
some  of  the  good  things  of  life  while  I  am 
still  young  .  .  .  and  I  was  lonely.  I  didn't 
fit  into  my  environment." 

"I  understand,  Leila.  .  .  .  Perhaps  I  appre- 
ciate the  loneliness,  the  rebellion,  better  than 
you  think.  .  .  .  You  see  other  girls  enjoying 
the  good  things  of  life  and  apparently  happy. 
But,  after  all,  happiness  is  purely  relative,  and 
what  makes  for  their  happiness  might  not  make 
for  yours.  Leila,  dear  girl,  couldn't  you  make 
up  your  mind  to  stick  it  out  just  a  little  while 
longer?  .  .  .  Things  were  sure  to  come  your 
way — or,  perhaps,  you  would  meet  the  right 
man  and  marry  and  settle  down  in  the  little 
home  of  your  own  which  you  told  me  you  have 
always  craved." 

"The  right  kind  of  men  don't  marry  chorus 
girls.  The  exceptions  are  rare.  And  what 
manner  of  men  are  they  who  do  marry  a  girl 
out  of  the  chorus?  Old  worn-out  roues,  al- 
most senile  from  the  debauched  lives  they  have 
led.  They  crave  something  young  and  fresh 
as  an  elixir  of  life.  Sometimes  it's  a  young 
blood  with  money;  a  black  sheep  of  the  family 
who  drinks  and  sports,  and  in  the  end  there's 


300         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

divorce  if  nothing  worse.  ...  I  couldn't 
marry  a  man  like  either  of  these.  .  .  .  It's  a 
mistake  to  be  too  fastidious.  .  .  ." 

"Is — is — he  married?" 

"He — O  .  .  .  Yes,  he's  married — in  a  way. 
His  wife  and  he  have  not  really  lived  together 
for  years.  For  the  sake  of  the  family  they 
keep  up  appearances.  .  .  .  She  doesn't  under- 
stand him.  .  .  ." 

4 'Did  he  tell  you  that — and  you  believe  it?" 

"But  I  know  it's  true !  You'd  believe  it,  too, 
if  ever  you  were  to  see  her.  He  married  her 
when  he  was  young  and  poor." 

"I  presume  they  loved  each  other  then;  she 
probably  pinched  and  scrimped  in  those  days 
to  help  him — to  help  him  get  where  he  is  to- 
day." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  that,  of 
course.  But  I  do  know  that  I  admire  him;  he 
has  a  wonderful  mind.  It's  a  privilege  to  be 
associated  with  a  man  like  him.  If  you  knew 
him,  you  would  not  think  so  badly  of  the — the 
arrangement." 

I  left  my  chair  to  sit  beside  her  on  the  couch. 

"Dear  girl,"  I  said,  slipping  my  hand  in 
Hers,  "Don't  misunderstand  me.  I'm  not  sit- 
ting in  judgment,  neither  am  I  criticizing  you. 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          301 

But  I  want  you  to  think  of  the  future.  Have 
you  ever  thought  of  the  time  when  you  will  be 
no  longer  young?  Have  you  never  observed 
that  type  of  woman  one  finds  hanging  around 
restaurants  or  hotel  corridors,  hoping  to  pick 
up  a  man,  any  man,  it  doesn't  matter  what  kind 
of  a  man  so  long  as  he  has  a  little  money? 
These  women  are  getting  along  in  years,  tak- 
ing on  flesh,  hiding  the  ravages  of  time  and  dis- 
sipation with  rouge,  hair-dyes  and  more  dissi- 
pation. They  are  fighting  life  and  getting  the 
worst  of  it,  having  put  into  life  only  their 
worst:  thrown  from  one  man's  arms  into  an- 
other's: down  the  line — always  down  grade, 
lower  and  lower  until — until  what  remains? 
The  streets,  the  work-house,  or  suicide.  .  .  . 
Have  you  thought  of  that?" 

"No!  No!  No! — and  I  don't  want  to  think 
of  it!"  She  pounded  her  fists  vehemently  to- 
gether. .  .  .  "I'm  tired  of  thinking  of  the 
future!  I've  done  nothing  all  my  life  but 
think  and  live  in  the  future — and  now  I'm  go- 
ing to  get  what  there  is — all  there  is — out  of 
the  present,  if  it's  only  a  pretty  gown,  only  a 
bright  flower!  What  incentive  has  a  girl  like 
me  to  be  good?  Go  away!  Go  away,  please, 
and  don't  bother  about  me!"  . 


302          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

As  I  walked  up  Fifth  Avenue  on  my  way 
home,  the  shops  and  various  dressmaking  es- 
tablishments were  disgorging  their  workers: 
pale  girls,  for  the  most  part,  poorly  clad.  Here 
and  there  one  prettier  than  the  rest,  showing 
in  her  dress  the  innate  love  of  display;  passing 
the  well-dressed  saunterer  along  the  way  with 
a  pert  glance,  an  inviting  eye;  dreaming  of  the 
silks  she  had  handled  all  day;  longing  for  the 
comforts  of  life  which  money  alone  can  buy. 
.  .  .  After  all,  is  it  a  question  of  morals  or 
economics  which  leads  these  girls  astray?  As 
my  little  friend  had  put  it,  "What  incentive 
have  they  to  go  straight  ?" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

WILL'S  season  closed  early.  My  own  prom- 
ised to  run  well  into  the  summer  months.  Will's 
return  was  marked  by  a  happier  frame  of  mind 
and  a  corresponding  good  humour.  He  had 
been  re-engaged  for  the  coming  year,  and  the 
fact  that  his  maternal  grandmother  had  re- 
cently died  and  left  him  a  small  legacy,  which 
would  be  made  over  to  him  during  the  summer, 
relieved  his  mind  of  the  worry  over  money 
matters  which  had  been  oppressing  him.  With 
characteristic  prodigality  he  invested  in  a  com- 
plete new  wardrobe — to  be  paid  for  when  the 
legacy  arrived.  Also  he  contemplated  buying 
a  motor-car,  though  I  endeavoured  to  point  out 
to  him  that  a  trip  abroad  would  be  a  better 
investment,  if  spend  his  money  he  must. 

It  was  well  along  in  June  when — with  a 
silent  Te  Deum — I  saw  the  notice  posted.  One 
of  those  periods  of  tropical  heat  had  descended 
upon  New  York  and  brought  the  run  of  the 
opera  to  an  abrupt  close.  It  was  a  welcome 

303 


3o4         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

relief  to  be  allowed  to  remain  at  home  for  days 
at  a  time.  I  set  about  to  refurnish  my  sum- 
mer wardrobe.  With  the  acquisition  of  an 
automobile  still  pending  in  his  mind,  Will  spent 
much  of  his  time  away  from  home,  trying  out 
various  makes  of  cars. 

It  was  during  one  such  week-end  hejira  that 
John  Gailbraith  returned  from  abroad.  He 
had  only  that  morning  disembarked,  and  after 
settling  himself  in  a  downtown  hotel  had  come 
to  call  on  us.  I  hailed  his  advent  with  de- 
light. Our  long  talks,  the  exchange  of  ideas, 
his  alert  mind  refreshed  and  stimulated  my 
own.  Will  once  laughingly  remarked  that  I 
had  developed  into  a  veritable  human  question 
mark.  But  m  no  other  way  could  I  induce  our 
friend  to  talk  about  himself  or  his  art.  He 
had  travelled  much  and  when  once  started  on 
the  subject  would  retail  his  experiences  in  for- 
eign lands.  My  interest  was  kept  on  the  qui 
vivc.  Then  there  was  his  work  and  achieve- 
ment. Long  were  the  discussions  and  criti- 
cisms of  the  "Super-creation"  and  the  thoughts 
and  ideas  which  had  led  to  its  conception. 

As  yet,  I  had  not  been  inclined  to  resume  my 
own  work  which  my  son's  death  had  caused  me 
to  lay  aside.  Now,  under  the  influence  of  my 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          305 

master's  encouragement  and  sympathy,  the  old 
ambition  quickened.  As  the  summer  pro- 
gressed we  came  to  see  a  great  deal  of  John 
Gailbraith.  Indeed,  he  became  a  part  of  our 
daily  life.  A  genuineness  which  made  itself 
felt,  a  cleanliness  of  mind  and  speech,  together 
with  a  quiet  humour  and  a  gift  of  sympathetic 
understanding,  endeared  him  to  his  friends. 
Will  shared  my  feeling,  else  he  had  not  thrown 
us  so  continuously  together. 

"John  Gailbraith  is  one  of  the  few  men  in 
the  world  to  whom  I  would  entrust  my  wife's 
honour,"  he  had  said  one  day.  *  I  had  chided 
Will  for  so  repeatedly  throwing  me  upon  our 
friend  for  amusement  or  companionship.  It 
had  become  a  common  thing  for  Will  to  hail 
his  friend  thus:  "Old  man,  if  you  haven't  any- 
thing better  to  do  tonight,  take  my  missus  out 
to  dinner,  will  you?  I  have  an  engagement  to 
hear  a  play  read,"  or,  "I  say,  Jack  old  boy, 
look  after  the  missus  while  I'm  away.  I've 
been  asked  to  go  on  a  motor-trip  for  a  few 
days  and  I  know  it's  punishment  to  drag  the 
poor  girl  along."  (Parenthetically  Will  rarely 
asked  me  to  join  him  on  these  motor-trips.) 
It  was  on  such  an  occasion  that  I  had  reproved 
Will  for  saddling  John  Gailbraith  with  a  re- 


306         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

sponsibility  which  may  not  have  been  to  his  lik- 
ing. "There  may  be  other  friends  to  whom 
he  may  wish  to  devote  himself;  besides  is  it 
wise  that  I  be  seen  so  continually  in  his 
company  and  without  my  husband?  You 
know  how  malicious  the  world  is.  People  will 
say " 

"O,  Hell!  I  believe  with  Bernard  Shaw: 
'They  say — what  do  they  say?  Let  them 
say!'  People  will  always  find  something  to 
criticize.  So  long  as  I  am  satisfied  it's  no- 
body's business.  I'm  not  afraid,  girlie,  of  any- 
one taking  you  away  from  me."  And  he  dis- 
missed the  subject. 

My  husband  not  only  encouraged  the  idea 
of  my  working  under  the  guiding  hand  of  the 
sculptor  but  developed  an  enthusiasm  which 
quite  took  away  my  breath.  In  one  of  his  im- 
pulsive moods  he  rented  a  studio  from  an  artist 
member  of  the  Players'  Club,  who  was  plan- 
ning to  go  abroad  for  a  year.  "It's  just  the 
thing  she  needs ;  something  to  occupy  her  mind. 
Besides,  any  little  pleasure  I  can  throw  her 
way  is  coming  to  her,  after  the  way  she  stood 
by  when  I  was  down  on  my  luck.  It  isn't 
every  wife  who  can  support  her  husband,  is  it, 
old  man?"  And  Will  slipped  his  arm  about 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          307 

my  shoulders  with  an  amused  wink.  He  was 
in  high  humour  these  days. 

There  was  a  great  scrubbing  and  cleaning 
before  I  pronounced  the  studio  habitable.  Will 
said  I  was  not  a  true  artist.  I  failed  to  find 
art  and  dirt  synonymous  or  mutually  connotat- 
ing each  the  other. 

The  building  which  housed  the  studio  was  in 
a  small  street  or,  more  properly,  an  area-way 
in  the  vicinity  of  lower  Fifth  Avenue  within  a 
stone's  throw  of  Washington  Square.  John 
Gailbraith  said  it  was  his  favourite  part  of  the 
city.  It  came  to  be  mine.  Sometimes,  after 
we  had  taken  luncheon  at  a  near-by  restaurant, 
we  would  stroll  in  the  square  or  sit  on  one  of 
the  benches.  Our  lounging  neighbours  were 
interesting  studies  in  real  life.  John  would 
point  out  the  various  foreign  types  and  com- 
pare them  with  their  countrymen  on  their  na- 
tive heath.  At  other  times  I  would  have  our 
recently  acquired  cook-lady  prepare  a  dainty 
lunch  basket,  which  I  .carried  to  the  studio,  and 
at  the  noon-hour,  while  John  made  the  tea,  I 
laid  the  table.  Here  we  would  linger,  ab- 
sorbed in  the  discussion  which  with  passing 
days  grew  more  frank  and  intimate.  I  no 
longer  felt  cramped  or  warped.  Expansion 


308          MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

had  become  an  almost  measurable  sensation. 
During  our  vari-toned  pour-parler,  one  subject 
was  by  seemingly  tacit  consent  taboo.  No  ref- 
erence or  allusion  was  ever  made  to  my  con- 
jugal affairs.  Whatever  John  Gailbraith 
thought  or  knew  concerning  Will's  peccadillos, 
he  gave  no  intimation.  It  was  not  possible 
that  he  had  not  heard  of  my  husband's  various 
liaisons.  In  fact,  Will,  himself,  made  no  at- 
tempt to  conceal  the  attentions  of  certain 
women  who  rang  up  at  his  home  under  flimsi- 
est pretence.  He  joked  lightly  about  their  in- 
discretions and  commented  on  the  fact  that  he 
"was  getting  to  be  the  real  thing  in  the  way  of 
a  matinee  idol."  The  period  following  upon 
my  son's  death  when  Will  had  devoted  himself 
to  me  with  something  of  the  sweetness  of  our 
early  married  life  was  short-lived.  And  if  I 
closed  my  eyes  and  ears  to  the  recurring  lapses 
of  his  fidelity  it  was  because  I  still  hoped  that 
some  day  he  would  need  my  love.  Whether 
John  Gailbraith  believed  there  was  an  under- 
standing between  my  husband  and  me  I  could 
only  surmise.  To  have  him  regard  me  in  the 
light  of  a  complaisant  wife  gave  me  many  un- 
comfortable moments,  yet  I  could  not  touch 
upon  the  subject.  The  truth  lovingly  told  is 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND         309 

that  I  came  nearer  to  being  happy  during  those 
summer  months  than  I  had  been  for — how 
many  years  had  passed  since  Will  and  I  had 
set  up  housekeeping  in  the  little  furnished  flat 
of  halcyon  days?  .  .  . 

When  Will's  absence  from  home  became 
more  frequent  and  of  long  duration  I  exerted 
myself  to  greet  his  return  with  a  pleasant  word 
and  a  serene  face.  And  if,  sometimes,  I  felt 
John's  eyes  upon  me — those  great  gray  eyes 
with  large  iris  and  the  black  fringed  lids — I 
strove  the  harder  to  dissemble. 

Sometimes  Will  would  swoop  down  on  us 
with  a  noisy  party  in  tow  and  insist  upon  an 
impromptu  dinner  in  the  workshop.  The  sug- 
gestion was  invariably  hailed  with  delight  by 
the  women,  who  regarded  the  studio  as  an  open 
sesame  to  forbidden  fruit  and  free  speech, 
while  to  the  men  it  connoted  models  in  the 
nude  and  bacchanalia. 

On  one  occasion  Will  brought  his  star  to  see 
the  minute  whirling  figure  the  sculptor  had  but 
recently  completed  in  refutation  of  the  criti- 
cism that  his  work  was  effective  only  in  large 
design.  Posing  as  a  connoisseur,  the  lady  had 
expressed  the  wish  to  sec  John's  work.  I 
think  I  hated  her  at  first  glance.  There  was 


310         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

something  snake-like  even  in  the  movement  of 
her  body  and  in  the  craning  of  her  long,  thin 
neck  from  which  a  sharp  jaw  projected.  She 
fascinated  while  she  repelled.  Being  tempera- 
mentally reserved  in  the  presence  of  strangers 
— and  the  lady  temperamentally  interested  in 
the  opposite  sex — I  had  an  opportunity  to  study 
her.  My  scrutiny  was  not  unobserved.  In- 
deed, she  was  always  conscious  of  self,  though 
apparently  not  self-conscious. 

In  the  act  of  taking  her  leave  she  stopped 
quite  suddenly  and  addressed  herself  to  me : 
"And  so  you  are  Meesus  Hartley.  .  .  .  What 
fine  eyes  you  have  .  .  .  such  .  .  .  what  ees 
the  word?  Yes,  tangled,  tangled  depths  .  .  . 
and  the  shadows!  ...  If  I  were  a  man  I 
should  make  love  to  Meesus  Hartley.  .  .  ." 
She  shot  a  glance  at  John  Gailbraith,  then 
dropped  her  lids  over  her  eyes.  But  the  sug- 
gestion was  not  lost.  It  was  not  meant  to  be. 

"Madame  has  a  pleasing  way  of  expressing 
herself,"  I  drawled,  meeting  the  much  affected 
wide  baby  stare  of  her  orbs  with  a  like  expres- 
sion. Suggestion  is  insidiously  effective.  From 
the  moment  my  husband's  star  had  dropped  the 
seed — thoughtlessly  or  maliciously,  who  shall 
say? — it  took  root.  The  calm  surface  over 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          311 

which  I  had  been  gliding  during  the  past 
months  ruffled  and  disturbed  my  equilibrium. 
The  old  camaraderie  between  John  Gailbraith 
and  me  gave  way  to  self-consciousness  on  my 
part.  I  felt  what  I  imagined  might  have  been 
the  sensation  which  overwhelmed  Mother  Eve 
after  eating  of  the  Tree  of  Knowledge.  For 
the  first  time  during  our  intercourse  I  looked 
upon  John  Gailbraith  as  man — myself,  woman. 
I  caught  myself  expecting,  anticipating,  parry- 
ing any  indication  on  his  part  which  might  be 
construed  as  a  prelude  to  tenderness.  My  at- 
titude became  constrained,  unnatural ;  his,  more 
gracious,  gentle,  tactful.  Perhaps  he  analyzed 
my  mood  as  the  natural  result  of  gossip  which 
connected  my  husband's  name  with  that  of  the 
"star."  That  he  pitied  me  heaped  coals  of 
fire  upon  my  head — and  his.  I  was  glad  of 
the  opportunity  which  took  him  to  Washington 
in  response  to  a  letter  from  a  prospective  pat- 
ron and  left  me  to  myself. 

With  mathematical  precision  I  questioned 
myself:  Why  should  I  permit  the  insinuations 
of  a  not  disinterested  woman  to  mar  a  friend- 
ship which  had  become  dear  to  me  and  which  I 
had  hoped  to  retain  all  my  life?  Was  friend- 
ship between  persons  of  opposite  sex  not  possi- 


312         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

ble?  Can  there  be  no  relationship  between 
man  and  woman  disassociated  from  sex?  Had 
this  man  by  look  or  word  professed  other  than 
friendship  for  me?  Had  I  professed  or  felt 
any  emotion  other  than  which  I  indicated? 
Then  why  permit  the  bond  to  be  severed  by  a 
wholly  suppositions  breach?  I  resolved  that 
upon  John's  return  to  the  city  I  should  take 
up  the  thread  where  I  had  left  off.  There  was 
consolation  in  the  determination. 

The  time  had  arrived  when  I  was  to  begin 
the  nude  of  Boy  in  marble.  It  was  to  be  my 
winter's  work  and  I  was  eager  to  be  well  ad- 
vanced with  it  before  John  went  abroad  again. 
I  looked  forward  to  his  going  with  genuine 
regret.  More  and  more  Will  had  estranged 
himself  from  me:  whether  deliberately  or  not 
I  was  not  prepared  to  answer.  The  relentless 
examination  continued.  What  was  it  which 
held  me  to  my  husband?  Did  I  still  love  him 
despite  his  infidelities,  his  ever-increasing  neg- 
lect and  selfishness?  Or  was  it  the  tender 
memories  of  our  youthful  love  at  whose  altar 
I  worshipped,  feeding  the  smouldering  embers 
with  incense  of  bruised  and  crushed  illusions? 
Might  I  not,  after  all,  with  patience,  devotion, 
tolerance  and  a  single-heartedness  of  purpose 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          313 

lead  his  wandering  steps  back  to  me?  If  life 
was  barren  now,  what  should  it  be  without 
him?  No,  I  must  find  my  solace  in  my  pride 
in  him;  must  squeeze  what  comfort  I  might  in 
helping  him  on  to  success;  always  with  the 
hope — hope ! — the  promise-crammed ! 

It  had  become  a  custom  of  mine  to  carry 
my  perturbation  of  heart  and  mind  to  my  boy's 
grave;  there,  in  the  silence  and  the  nothingness 
of  life,  to  find  a  balm  and  fortitude.  It  was 
upon  such  a  mission  I  set  out  one  day  late  in 
September.  Under  the  early  autumn  haze  the 
meadows  lay  carpeted  with  golden  rod  and 
fleecy  lace  of  the  Queen's  handkerchief. 
Soothed  by  this  tryst  with  my  loved  one  I  re- 
turned to  town  prepared  to  take  up  the  battle. 
Arriving  at  the  Grand  Central  Station  I  de- 
cided to  telephone  to  Will's  club  with  the  hope 
of  finding  he  had  returned  during  my  absence. 
Stopping  to  pay  the  toll  I  glanced  listlessly 
around  the  waiting-room.  A  familiar  figure 
caused  me  to  start  forward,  then  draw  back. 
There,  coming  through  the  station  was  my  hus- 
band and  his  "star."  From  the  handbags  he 
carried — one  of  which  I  recognized  as  his — 
it  was  evident  that  they  had  come  direct  from 
the  train.  I  recalled  that  Will  had  mentioned 


314         MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

the  fact  that  the  star  had  recently  bought  a 
country  residence.  And,  too,  it  recurred  to 
me  that,  when  on  Saturday  night  Will  had 
telephoned  me  that  he  was  at  a  Turkish  bath 
and  would  remain  there  all  day,  his  voice  had 
a  far-away  sound  to  it,  as  if  the  message  were 
at  long  distance.  Sunday  and  Monday  had 
passed  with  no  word  from  him.  I  now  under- 
stood where  he  had  been.  ...  I  watched 
them  drive  away  in  a  hansom.  .  .  .  Then  I 
took  a  car  home. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

IT  had  never  before  suggested  itself  to  me 
that  divorce  was  the  only  solution.  Divorce 
had  always  appeared  to  me  an  acknowledg- 
ment of  failure — failure  of  married  life. 
When  my  son  was  taken  from  me  I  had  cher- 
ished the  delusion  that  our  differences  lay 
buried  in  his  grave ;  that  an  adjustment  of  our 
married  life  was  imminent.  .  .  .  Divorce!  To 
give  him  his  freedom;  to  turn  me  upon  the 
world  without  anchor,  ballast  or  compass. 
...  A  kind  of  terror  took  possession  of  me 
— not  the  terror  of  being  thrown  upon  my  own 
resources  for  a  livelihood,  since  I  was  not  de- 
pendent upon  my  husband  for  maintenance,  a 
consideration  which  prevents  many  women 
from  severing  a  bond  which  has  become  re- 
pugnant to  them — but  the  terror  of  loneliness. 
I  had  already  tasted  of  this  bitterness — was 
I  now  to  be  surfeited  with  it?  If  only  Boy 
had  been  spared  to  me !  O,  God,  the  pity  of 
it  all !  ...  And  yet,  there  was  no  other  way. 

315 


316          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

To  carry  on  the  farce  of  married  relationship; 
to  submit  to  him,  feeling  only  revulsion,  repug- 
nance, was  nothing  short  of  prostitution.  And 
had  I  not  already  prostituted  the  best  that  was 
in  me?  Already  the  corroding  influences 
around  me  had  begun  to  tell.  Even  John  Gail- 
braith  had  noticed  the  change  in  me  and  had 
alluded  to  it  under  the  veil  of  kindly  intent. 
If  I  were  to  save  anything  from  the  wreckage 
I  must  begin  now,  at  once — before  it  was  too 
late.  I  had  seen  women,  good  women,  strong- 
er women  than  myself,  break  under  the  strain 
of  neglect  and  loneliness.  .  .  .  Well,  I 
should  not  break.  Pride  should  sustain  me. 
.  .  .  The  future  .  .  .  no,  I  dared  not  yet 
think  of  the  future.  It  made  me  quail  and 
falter  in  my  purpose — a  purpose  I  deter- 
mined to  make  known  to  my  husband  on  his  re- 
turn. 

Arriving  at  the  studio  the  next  morning 
earlier  than  was  my  custom  (Will  had  not 
yet  put  in  an  appearance  and  the  delay  but 
strengthened  my  purpose),  I  found  that  John 
had  not  yet  returned  from  breakfast.  His 
small  sleeping-quarters,  giving  upon  the  studio 
proper,  were  open  and,  without  meaning  to 
be  curious,  I  paused  in  the  doorway.  A  char- 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          317 

coal  sketch  caught  my  eye.  It  was  my  own 
likeness.  Scattered  about  the  room  were  other 
sketches  in  various  stages  of  development.  I 
turned  away,  closing  the  door  behind  me.  A 
warm  flush  suffused  my  being.  I  told  myself 
it  was  shame  at  having  intruded  where  I  had 
not  been  bidden.  .  .  .  The  various  models  of 
my  son  stood  about  the  room  and  beckoned 
me.  I  ran  my  fingers  over  the  little  head,  the 
pouting  lips,  and  laid  my  cheek  to  his  in  silent 
salutation.  The  flood-gates  strained  and 
throbbed,  threatening  to  break  through.  .  .  . 
A  hand  closed  over  mine.  ...  I  knew  the 
hand.  ...  In  my  complete  immersion  of 
thought  I  had  not  heard  him  come  in.  ...  I 
bent  and  pressed  my  lips  upon  his  hand.  .  .  . 
We  stood  looking  at  each  other.  Something 
of  the  shock  I  felt  was  mirrored  in  his  eyes. 
.  .  .  "Margaret  .  .  Margaret,"  he  had  said 
.  .  and  I,  all  unyielding,  had  sought  the  solace 
of  his  arms.  .  .  . 

Some  time  later  he  placed  a  chair  for  me 
and  forced  me  gently  down  .  .  still  quivering 
under  the  shock  of  revelation — revelation,  not 
of  what  I  had  done,  but  of  what  I  felt!  The 
spurious  sentiment  which  had  held  me  to  the 
past  of  things  shook  me  with  its  last  convul- 


3i8         MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND 

sive  gasps.  .  .  .  Seated  in  front  of  me,  his 
hands  clasping  mine,  he  read  the  confusion  in 
my  mind:  confusion  which  speech  alone  could 
dissipate.  .  .  . 

"I  want  you  to  know  what  is  in  my  mind 
and  heart.  .  .  .  Doubt,  a  great  question  over- 
shadows all  else.  I  ask  myself,  can  a  woman 
love  more  than  once?  Is  there  a  love  for 
youth,  a  love  for  maturity?  .  .  .  You  see,  I 
am  not  sure  that  I  really  love  you.  I  am  haunt- 
ed with  the  fear  that  my  loneliness,  my 
wounded  pride,  my  unsatisfied  life  have  caused 
me  to  seek  consolation.  And  I  have  come  to 
you  for  that  consolation  because  I  respect  and 
admire  you.  Propinquity  has  proved  that  we 
are  companionable  and  that  we  have  much  in 
common.  But  love  demands  something  more 
than  companionship,  respect  and  admiration. 
You  would  demand  something  more.  .  .  . 
Whether  I  am  prepared  to  give  you  that  which 
you  demand  is  the  question.  As  I  feel  now, 
I  could  not  give  you  all  the  marriage  relation 
implies.  Do  you  understand  my  scruples?  I 
have  the  feeling  that  to  go  from  one  man's 
arms  to  another's  is  nothing  short  of  indecen- 
cy. Perhaps  time  will  alter  the  perspective. 
But  I  don't  know,  John,  I  don't  know!  You 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND          319 

see  I  want  to  be  honest  with  you.  I  want  to 
promise  nothing  about  which  I  am  not  sure. 
.  .  .  Then,  there  is  your  side  of  it.  Can  I 
give  all  a  man  expects  from  the  woman  he 
makes  his  wife?  What  have  I  to  give?  The 
bloom  of  my  womanhood,  the  ardent  passion 
of  youth  is  forever  gone.  What  is  left  may 
not  satisfy  you.  ...  It  is  right  that  you 
should  go  away  at  once  .  .  but  I  shall  be  lone- 
ly. ...  God  and  my  heart  alone  know  how 
lonely  I  shall  be.  ...  " 

"Margaret,  I  thank  you  for  your  frankness. 
It  only  adds  to  my  love  for  you.  I  appreciate 
and  respect  the  feeling  which  bids  you  send 
me  away  at  this  time.  Only  don't  sacrifice 
yourself  to  a  prudish  modesty;  don't  make  a 
fetish  of  the  past.  Conserve  your  tender  mem- 
ories, if  you  will,  but  strip  them  of  overvalua- 
tion. .  .  .  You  ask  what  have  you  to  give. 
.  .  .  Do  you  believe  that  because  the  bloom 
of  your  womanhood,  your  first  passion  and  its 
fruition  have  belonged  to  another,  that  there 
is  nothing  left  to  give?  Shall  I  be  giving, 
does  any  man  give,  what  he  demands  of  a 
woman  as  the  prerogative  of  his  sex?  You 
see,  little  woman,  we  are  the  victims  of  a  false 
education.  There  is  one  standard  for  woman, 


320          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

a  different  standard  for  man.  It  is  this  faulty 
double  standard  which  is  responsible  for  so 
many  unhappy  marriages.  Some  day  this  will 
all  be  changed.  There  are  signs  even  today 
of  the  awakening.  .  .  .  Rid  your  mind  once 
and  for  all  of  the  spectre  that  the  past  will 
stand  between  us.  Don't  stultify  your  woman- 
hood with  a  sentimentalism  which  is  the  curse 
of  your  sex.  Life  lies  before  you.  The  moth- 
erhood which  your  nature  is  crying  out  for  is 
your  rightful  heritage.  Look  ahead,  dear.  Be 
true  to  the  best  that  is  in  you  .  .  and  remem- 
ber .  .  I  am  waiting.  .  .  .  ' 

I  bade  him  good-bye — and  had  lingered. 
His  strong  hands  clasped  mine  once  more  and 
held  me  there.  .  .  .  Mutely  we  looked  into 
each  other's  eyes  .  .  and  thus  my  husband 
found  us.  .  .  .  Coming  in  unannounced — 
whether  intentionally  was  of  small  moment. 
We  did  not  start;  instead,  I  think  he  held  me 
closer  and  met  the  other's  sneer  with  a  clear 
gaze.  .  .  . 

"Drop  my  wife's  hand!  Drop  it,  I  say!" 
Will  raised  his  cane  to  strike.  I  heard  it  snap 
and  saw  the  bits  in  the  other's  hand.  They 
clenched  and  glared  at  each  other.  .  .  . 

"It  is  not  necessary  to  indulge  in  heroics,'* 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND         321 

I  interposed.  .  .  .  "Suppose  we  talk  it  over — 
sensibly." 

As  we  seated  ourselves  in  preparation  for 
the  "pour-parler"  the  ironic  humour  of  the  sit- 
uation came  to  my  rescue.  There  was  some- 
thing absurdly  theatrical  about  Will's  attitude : 
a  stentorian  breathing;  his  stride  across  the 
room;  a  certain  punctuated  deliberation  in  the 
way  he  relieved  himself  of  hat  and  gloves.  I 
had  seen  him  do  thus  in  "strong"  scenes  on  the 
stage,  many  and  many's  the  time.  I  felt  as 
if  I  were  waiting  for  a  cue.  .  .  . 

"So!"  Will  began  after  placing  his  chair 
firmly  centre.  .  .  .  "So  this  is  the  way  you 
abuse  my  confidence  in  you  both!  .  .  .  My 
God,  where  is  your  sense  of  honour?  If  I 
hadn't  trusted  you  so  implicitly  it  wouldn't  be 
so  bad  .  .  but  to  deliberately  strike  me  from 
behind!"  He  rose,  strode  left  centre  and  back 
again.  "And  you — my  wife!  My  wife!  I 
would  not  have  believed  it  of  you!  I  would 
never  have  believed  it  possible  that  my  wife 
could  so  deceive  me.  .  .  .  I've  been  warned 
about  this.  .  .  .  I've  been  warned  that  such  a 
thing  as  this  might  happen,  but  I  refused  to 
listen  to  gossip  .  .  and  nobody  had  the  nerve 
to  tell  me  the  truth.  .  It's  the  same  old 


322          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

story  .  .  a  husband  is  always  the  last  one  to 
hear  of  his  wife's  infidelity.  .  .  .  Margaret! 
Margaret!  !  !" 

He  stopped  and  waved  his  hand  tragically 
in  the  direction  of  the  models  of  Boy.  .  .  . 

"How  could  you.  .  .  .  How  could  you ! 
.  .  .  Here  under  the  very  eyes  of  our  little 
son!  Have  you  no  shame,  have  you  no  rever- 
ence for  the  memory  of  that  sainted  child? 
...  O,  my  God !  Woman !  .  .  .  " 

The  mention  of  the  child  electrified  me  .  . 
his  cheap  grief  was  revolting.  .  .  . 

"Stop  that!  Stop  your  acting!  I'm  sick, 
sick,  sick  unto  death  of  the  theatre!  .  .  . 
Haven't  you  one  honest,  sincere  emotion  in 
your  nature?  Play  the  plain,  rugged  manly 
hero  for  once  in  your  life,  if  act  you  must! 
.  .  .  You  wouldn't  believe  it  of  your  wife  .  . 
your  wife.  .  .  .  Do  you  think  your  wife  is 
not  made  of  flesh  and  blood  and  sensibilities 
like  other  human  beings?  What  right  have 
you  to  expect  anything  from  your  wife  ?  How 
dare  you  conjure  with  my  son's  name?  .  .  you, 

fresh  from  the  arms  of  that— that  creature! 
»> 

Will  eyed  me  narrowly. 

"O  .  .  so  you've  been  listening  to  gossip, 


MY   ACTOR-HUSBAND         323 

have  you?  You've  been  discussing  me  between 
you,  is  that  it?  No  doubt  our  friend,  here, 
has  done  his  best  to  put  you  wise,  eh?  I've 
had  enough  of  this.  .  .  .  ' 

"You  shall  stay  and  hear  me  out!  ...  It 
may  surprise  you  to  know  that  our  friend, 
here,  has  not  even  intimated  that  he  knew  of 
your  flagrant  liaison.  ...  It  may  shock  you 
to  know  that  it  was  your  wife,  the  gutta-percha 
doll,  who  made  the  first  declaration  of  tender- 
ness, and  Fm  glad,  I'm  glad  that  I  had  so 
much  real  passion  left!  I'm  glad  to  realize 
that  after  all  I  am  a  human  being  still,  capable 
of  feeling"  ...  (a  sudden  weariness  over- 
came me  and  left  me  limp  and  exhausted). 
"The  trouble  is — you  are  so  impregnated  with 
the  rottenness  about  you,  that  you  judge  all 
by  your  own  standard.  .  .  .  Let's  have  done 
with  this !  .  .  .  Any  further  discussion  will  be 
carried  on  in  the  privacy  of  our  home.  .  .  . 
I  am  sorry  .  .  sorry  to  have  subjected  you  to 
this  humiliating  scene."  My  last  words  were 
addressed  to  the  man  who,  tall,  gaunt  and  pale* 
looked  on — and  waited.  Through  a  blur  of 
tears  I  held  out  my  hand  to  him.  .  .  .  "Good- 
bye," I  said  and  left  them  together. 

It  was  dark  when  Will  returned.     I  heard 


324          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

him  softly  close  the  hall-door  after  him.  He 
came  into  the  room  where  I  was  lying  and  sat 
down  beside  me. 

"Girlie  .  .  I  have  something  to  say  to  you. 
.  .  .  '  His  speech  showed  a  little  thickness 
and  I  smelled  the  liquor  on  his  breath.  His 
tone  was  kindly  and  I  felt  my  rancour  soften. 

"First,  don't  let  us  lose  our  heads  again  .  . 
it  doesn't  help  matters.  .  .  .  Gailbraith  and  I 
have  talked  it  over  .  .  and  the  kindest  thing 
I  can  do  is  to  give  you  a  divorce.  .  .  .  That 
sounds  cold-blooded,  doesn't  it,  between  you 
and  me?  .  .  but  it's  the  only  thing  .  .  the 
only  right  thing.  Gailbraith  says  I'm  not  play- 
ing fair  by  you;  that  I  am  ruining  your  life 
and  cheating  you  out  of  happiness  which  I 
can't  give  you  myself  .  .  and  I  guess  he's 
right.  ...  I  guess  Gailbraith's  right.  .  .  . 
We've  drifted  pretty  far  apart — I  realize  that 
now  .  .  but — I  want  you  to  believe  me  when 
I  say  you  are  the  only  woman  I  have  ever 
loved — or  ever  will  love.  The  rest  are  just — 
experiences;  some  of  them  fascinating  while 
they  last,  but  none  of  them  the  real  thing.  No 
one  will  ever  replace  you  in  my  heart  .  . 
that's  certain.  .  .  .  It's  too  bad — too  damned 
bad.  ,  It's  this  hellish  business!  There 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          325 

ought  to  be  a  law  to  prevent  actors  from  mar- 
rying. .  .  .  Now  for  the  business  end  of  it: 
I  know  you  won't  drag  in  any  names  as  co- 
respondents. We'll  fix  that  up  later.  I'll  give 
you  a  lump  sum,  now — it  can't  be  as  large  as 
I  should  like  it  to  be,  for  there  isn't  much  left. 
When  my  season  opens  I'll  make  you  a  weekly 
allowance  until — until  such  a  time  as  you  are 
able  to  dispense  with  it.  I'll  see  my  lawyer — > 

tomorrow,  and  fix  things  up  with  him 

Don't  you  think  it  might  be  well  for  you  to  go 
away  for  a  few  days  to  avoid  the  newspaper 
blow-up?" 

I  nodded.    I  could  not  speak.  .  .  . 

"There,  old  pard  .  .  don't  take  it  so  hard. 
...  I  guess  that's  all  for  the  present.  I'll 
be  at  the  club  any  time  you  want  me.  .  .  . 
Good — good-night,  Girlie  .  .  and  God  bless 
you.  ..." 

In  the  days  which  followed  I  appeared  to 
myself  like  a  rudderless  ship  in  a  choppy  sea. 
I  did  not  see  John  Gailbraith  again.  He  sailed 
within  a  few  days  after  the  scene  in  the  studio. 
In  a  letter  written  from  the  boat  he  told  me 
he  had  not  forced  himself  upon  me,  knowing 
my  wishes  and  respecting  them.  "Be  true  to 
yourself  is  all  I  ask,"  the  letter  ran,  "and  know 


326          MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND 

that  whatever  you  may  decide  as  best  for  your- 
self that  shall  I  abide  by." 

Following  the  serving  of  the  papers  on  Will 
for  absolute  divorce,  I  left  town.  Those 
wretched  days  were  spent  on  railroad  trains, 
fast  trains,  flyers.  I  got  off  one  only  to  board 
another.  The  sense  of  "going  somewhere" 
was  in  keeping  with  my  mood.  When  I  re- 
turned to  New  York,  worn  and  relaxed,  I  ap- 
preciated the  quiet  of  what  once  had  been 
home.  .  .  .  Will  had  already  installed  him- 
self at  the  club.  The  dismantling  of  the  apart- 
ment was  a  nerve-racking  task.  Memories, 
bitter,  sweet,  crowded  on  each  other's  heels, 
"so  fast  they  followed."  Will  had  left  a  list 
of  books  and  trinkets  which  were  to  be  packed 
and  sent  to  storage  in  his  name.  In  an  old 
trunk,  buried  beneath  dust  and  grime  in  the 
bin,  below  stairs,  I  found  endless  souvenirs  of 
my  married  life.  Photographs,  letters,  my 
wedding  flowers;  press-notices,  carefully  pre- 
served in  a  large  scrap-book;  costumes  I  had 
made  for  Will  in  the  early  days  of  our  strug- 
gle; Boy's  first  shoe.  .  .  .  This  inscription  on 
the  back  of  a  large  photograph  Will  had  giv- 
en to  me  on  the  day  of  our  betrothal:  "To 
Girlie  from  her  Boy — until  death  do  us  part 


MY    ACTOR-HUSBAND          327 

and  even  in  eternity."  .  .  .  Letters,  breath- 
ing hope  and  fears  and  always — love.  .  .  . 
Damp  with  tears,  I  gathered  the  symbols  of 
the  wreck  and  plied  a  match.  I  watched  them 
as  they  burned  .  .  and  crumbled  to  ashes  .  . 

ashes.  .  .  . 

****** 

I  sat  in  the  rear  of  the  dim  theatre  where  I 
had  slipped  unnoticed,  after  the  lights  were 
lowered.  I  had  come  to  see  him  as  a  kind  of 
leave-taking.  Tomorrow,  the  open  sea  .  .  a 
new  world.  .  .  .  His  voice  thrilled  me  as  be- 
fore :  I  smiled  at  familiar  little  tricks  and  man- 
nerisms. .  .  .  His  features  had  coarsened 
somewhat;  his  figure  taken  on  flesh,  but  it 
was  the  same  Will  .  .  the  same  handsome  lov- 
er of  my  youth.  The  scene  faded  from  my 
view.  ...  I  lived  again  in  the  past;  all  ran- 
cour dead,  a  great  tenderness  and  regret — 
regret  that  it  should  be  so.  Silently  I  stole 
away,  while  the  lights  were  low.  "God  bless 
you,  dear,"  I  whispered  in  my  heart,  "God 
bless  and  keep  you,  dear." 

THE  END 


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A 
A 


and  enjoyed' ~faiee  Weeks.' 

THE  DIARY  OF  MY  HONEYMOON 


si  aonan  to  tvoca  npon   mini         m,     w«"  •«*  .  •  '    _,  « 
writinc  at  aO;  hnt  whatever  suy  he  said  of  the  views  of  the  ansnjaians 
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•oral  of  which  is  sound  IhnnchoM  snd  pan  to  see. 

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"£ST 

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the  son*  and  hodies  of  a  type  half  virna 
DaMe  in  a  vohnme  of  athxtioai  »d^rah^ 
•IBSMIIH niu"     ftm  Frmmcucm  CAvomcie. 

THE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  NICE  YOUNG  MAN,  by 

Aix 


THE  HiUULAT  CMPilT 


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